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JOSEPH  McOONOUGH  CO. 


HENRY  TAYLOR'S  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
VOL.  11. 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY 


OF 


HENRY    TAYLOR 


1800—1875 


"Small  sands  the  mmmtain,  moments  make  the  year 
And  trifles  life  "  Young 


m  TWO  VOLUMES 
VOL.  II. 

1844— 1875 


NEW    YORK 
HARPER    k    BROTHERS,    FRANKLIN    SQUARE 

1885 


KEW^ 


CONTENTS  OF  VOL.  11. 


I.  Travels.  —Death  of  Edward  Villiers. — Stanzas  in  Remem- 
brance of  Him 1 

II.  Return  to  England. — Alice  left  at  Schwalbach  to  Com- 
mune with  Herself. — Aubrey  deVere  Converted  into 
a  Practical  Man. — Meditations  on  Italy  in  Stanzas  en- 
titled "Lago  Lugano." — Correspondence  Resulting 
with  Sir  Edmund  Head  and  Sir  Frederick  Elliot  .     .      8 

III.  London  Reviled  and  Renounced.— House  Taken  at  Mort- 

lake. — Colonial  Government  not  Desired. — Office  of 
Under  Secretary  of  State  Refused. — "  Van  Artevelde  " 
Acted.— A  Poem 20 

IV.  Colonial  Office  in  Arms  to  Fight  the  Chartists.— Fights 

the  Planters  in  Committee.— Sir  Robert  Peel  Strong 
in  the  Strength  of  Ephraim. — A  Comedy  of  Romance 
Finished,  and  Entitled  "  The  Virgin  Widow  "  .     .     .     89 
V.  Family  Party  at  Tunbridge  Wells.— Superfluous  Serv'ants 
and  their  Ways. — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cameron. — Lord  and 

Lady  John  Russell 37 

VI.  More  of  Mrs.  Cameron. — Wordsworth's  Last  Days. — 

Death  and  Biography.  — Tennyson's"  In  Memoriam  ".     46 
VII.  Isly  Father's  Last  Year.— His  Description  of  Sir  John 
Herschel. — Sir  Robert  Peel's  Death.— Illness  of  my 
Father  and  Mother.— My  Father's  Death.— My  Moth- 
er's Letters  in  the  Following  Year  (1851) 54 

VIII.  Autumnal  Changes. — Aubrey  de  Vere  Swerving  towards 
Rome. — "  The  Wise  Woman  Buildeth  her  House." 
—Sir  John  Pakington.— Archbisliop  of  York.— Lord 


6526 


vi  Contents. 

OUAP.  PAOR 

and  Lady  John  Russell. — Newspapers.— Lady  Hath- 
erton.— Witton  once  more.— My  Mother's  Letters 
again. — The  Funeral  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington. — 
My  Mother's  Death. — Miss  Fenwick's  Last  Years  and 
Death 74 

IX.  Troubles  of  the  Nursery. — Fear  Moralized. — Treasure- 
trove  at  Seaton  Carew. — A  Mother's  Consolations  in 
Losing  her  Youth. — Domestic  Life.— Meddlings  in 
Public  Matters 97 

X.  Social  Life. — At  the  Grange. — Bishop  Wilberforce  and 
others. — Light  and  Shade. — A  Spectre  Comes  to  a 
Dinner .  107 

XL  Mr.  and  Lady  Mary  Labouchere.— State  of  Health. — 
Visit  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Prescott. — Life  in  a  Lodging. 
— An  Illness. — An  Official  Arrangement. — A  New 
Friendship 123 

XII.  Life   at   Home. — "St.   Clement's  Eve." — Aubrey   de 

Vere's  Poetry 135 

XIII.  Bournemouth 148 

XIV.  Freshwater  Bay. — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cameron  and  their  Chil- 

dren.— Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tennyson  and  theirs    .    .     .     .153 

XV.  Dealings  with  Life  in  its  Decline. — Sonnet  by  Aubrey 
de  Vcre.— Spedding's  "Life  and  Letters  of  Lord  Ba- 
con."— His  Estimate  of  "  St.  Clement's  Eve  "  .  .  .  1G6 
XVI.  Degree  of  D.C.L.  Conferred  at  Oxford.— Academical 
Festivities. — Divers  Forms  of  Pleasure. — Idleness  in 
the  Foreign  Office  and  the  Recreations  of  Mr.  Ham- 
mond.— Lord  Palmerston  and  Professor  Wheat  stone.  179 
XVII.  Questions  of  Home  Policy  in  Letter  to  Lord  Grey. — 
Letter  to  Mr.  Herman  Merivale.— Questions  of  Colo- 
nial Policy  in  Letters  to  the  Duke  of  Newcastle  and 

others 183 

XVIIl.  Marriages  and  Deaths 804 

XIX.  The  Insurrection  of  1865  in  Jamaica.— IMartial  Law    .  211 
XX.  Order  of  St.  Michael  and  St.  George.— Life  Peerages. — 

"Crime  Considered."— A  Penal  Code 224 


Contents.  vii 

OIIAP.  PAQB 

XXI.  Sir  Frederic  Rogers  Retires.— He  Accepts  a  Peerage. 

— Uses  of  a  Peer.— I  Retire 235 

XXII.  Sir  James  Stephen. — Lord  Melbourne. — Mr.  Gladstone.  248 

XXIII.  What  is  Lost  in  Old  Age  and  What  is  Left.— My  Fa- 

ther's, my  Brothers',  and  my  Children's  Poetic  Gifts.  267 

XXIV.  Three   Winters   in   London.— Lord   Romilly.— "  The 

Club" 274 

XXV.  Resumption  of  my  Autobiography. — A  Prefatory  Post- 
script      282 


AUTOBIOGRAPHY 


HENRY  TAYLOR. 


Chapter  I. 


TRAVELS.— DEATH   OF   EDWARD   YILLIERS.— STANZAS   IN  RE- 
MEMBRANCE  OF  HIM. 

Anxo  Dom.  1843.     Anno  ^t.  43. 

Or  my  travels  and  abode  abroad  I  shall  not  have  much 
to  say.  All  the  world  travels  now,  and  I  saw  nothing  but 
what  all  the  world  has  seen  ;  and  what  I  saw  probably 
made  less  impression  on  me,  in  my  weakened  health,  than 
it  might  be  expected  to  make  upon  most  men  of  average 
or  more  than  average  intelligence;  certainly  far  less  than 
on  my  wife  and  on  Aubrey  de  Yere,  who  accompanied  us 
on  our  travels.  Indeed,  as  to  painting  and  sculpture,  my 
tastes  may  be  said  to  have  been  wholly  uncultivated  dur- 
ing my  youth;  and  though  ray  letters  speak  of  the  first 
impression  made  upon  me  by  the  galleries  at  Florence  as 
very  delightful — adding  that  I  was  then,  perhaps,  in  the 
stage  of  cultivation  in  which  the  critical  judgment  affords 
more  pleasure  than  it  counteracts — yet  I  think  that  upon 
the  whole  I  gained  rather  in  discernment  than  in  enjoy- 
ment by  my  acquaintance  with  works  of  art  in  Italy,  and 
I  do  not  believe  that  I  gained  very  much  in  either. 

The  first  object  mentioned  in  my  letters  is  the  Cathe- 
II.— 1 


3  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

dral  of  St.  Omcr,  which  had  been  half  pulled  down  in  the 
Revolution;  ?jk1  1  called  to  xinnd  that  when  Southey  and 
I  had  seen  it  some  seventeen  years  before,  he  remarked 
with  what  different  feelings  one  regards  the  ruins  made 
by  time  and  those  which  arc  of  man's  making.  This  was 
a  raw  ruin. 

AVhat  came  next  was  the  most  magnificent  work  of  its 
age,  the  Cathedral  at  Cologne,  with  its  one  third  of  a 
tower,  of  which  the  other  two  thirds  had  remained  for  so 
many  centuries  still  unbuilt.  And  I  noted  the  opposite 
impressions  made  upon  two  of  the  most  thoughtful  minds 
I  had  known,  by  a  great  work  thus  broken  off: 

"Tilings  incomplete  and  purposes  betrayed 
Make  sadder  transits  o'er  Trutli's  mystic  glass 
Than  noblest  objects  utterly  decayed." 

Such  is  Wordsworth's  comment;  while  Aubrey  de  Vero 
saw  in  the  incompleteness  a  token  of  the  aspirations  of 
humanity  transcending  its  effective  powers,  more  elevat- 
ing to  contemplate,  insomuch  as  exalted  hopes  and  en- 
deavors are  more  admirable  than  success. 

About  the  same  time  that  Ave  had  left  England,  and  in 
the  same  quest  of  health,  but  Avith  much  less  hope  of  find- 
ing it,  Edward  Villiers,  with  his  wife,  had  also  set  off  for 
Italy.  They  had  gone  by  another  route,  for  it  was  thought 
best  that  two  invalids  should  not  travel  together,  but  it 
Avas  arranged  that  if  any  emergency  should  arise  the  one 
party  should  be  within  call  of  the  other;  and  Avhcn  we  had 
reached  INIilan  a  letter  arrived  Avhicli  summoned  us  to  Nice. 
EdAvard  had  become  suddenly  Avorse  and  had  not  many 
days  to  live. 

It  is  known  to  both  the  medical  and  the  clerical  attend- 
ants upon  death-beds,'  that,  Avitli  rare  exceptions,  the  fear 
of  death  A'anishcs  Avith  its  near  approach.  I  do  not  know 
what  are  the  ordinary  antidotes;  the  effect  is  too  general  to 


Death  of  Edward  Villiers.  3 

be  accounted  for  in  all  cases  by  the  love  which  casts  out 
fear,  or  by  an  enhancement  of  those  other  spiritual  affec- 
tions to  Avhich  one  would  most  desire  to  ascribe  it;  but 
with  Edward  Villiers  at  least,  whatever  else  may  have  been 
at  work,  there  was  a  manifest  intensity  and  exaltation  of 
faith  and  hope, 

I  wrote  to  my  father  on  the  29th  November: 
"  We  left  Nice  on  the  16th,  and  I  have  seldom  left  any 
place  with  so  much  regret,  and  I  shall  always  look  back 
upon  it  as  a  place  in  which  sorrow  had  fallen  upon  me 
with  such  soft  and  consolatory  accompaniments  as  to  take 
away  all  its  bitterness,  and  to  make  the  great  calamities 
of  life  appear  (forevermore,  as  I  trust)  less  fearful  to  my 
eyes  than  they  have  been  wont  to  do." 

The  feelings  immediately  attending  such  an  event  do 
not  always  afford  a  true  index  of  those  which  are  to  come 
when  depression  shall  have  succeeded  to  emotion.  How 
it  was  with  me  I  hardly  know  now,  and  the  only  recoi'd 
which  remains  is  a  poem  which  expresses  rather  what  I 
had  lost  than  what  I  had  felt.  It  has  been  published 
among  my  minor  poems,  but  will  be  in  its  place  here: 

"in  eemembkanoe  of 

The  Hon.  Edward  Ernest  Villiers, 

Who  died  at  J^ice,  on  the  oOth  October,  18i3. 

I. 
A  grace,  tliougli  melancholy,  manly  too, 
Moulded  his  being;  pensive,  grave,  serene, 
O'er  his  habitual  bearing  and  his  mien 
Unceasing  pain,  by  patience  temper'd,  threw 
A  shade  of  sweet  austerity.     But  seen 
In  happier  hours  and  by  the  friendly  few, 
Tiiat  curtain  of  the  spirit  was  withdrawn, 
And  fancy  light  and  playful  as  a  fawn, 
And  reason  imp'd  with  inquisition  keen, 
Knowledge  long  sought  with  ardor  ever  new, 


Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

And  wit,  lovc-kindlecl,  show'd  in  colors  true 
What  genial  joj's  with  suflerings  can  consist. 
Tiien  did  all  sternness  melt  as  melts  a  mist 
Toucii'd  by  the  brightness  of  the  golden  dawn, 
Aerial  heights  disclosing,  valleys  green, 
And  sunlights  thrown  the  woodland  tufts  between, 
And  flowers  and  spangles  of  the  dewy  lawn. 


And  even  the  stranger,  though  he  saw  not  these, 
Saw  what  would  not  be  willingly  passed  by. 
In  his  deportment,  even  when  cold  and  shy. 
Was  seen  a  clear  coUectedness  and  ease, 
A  simple  grace  and  gentle  dignit}', 
That  fail'd  not  at  the  first  accost  to  please; 
And  as  reserve  relented  by  degrees, 
So  winning  was  bis  aspect  and  address, 
His  smile  so  rich  in  sad  felicities. 
Accordant  to  a  voice  which  cbarm'd  no  less, 
That  who  but  saw  him  once  remember'd  long, 
And  some  in  whom  such  images  are  strong 
Have  hoarded  the  impression  in  their  heart, 
Fancy's  fond  dreams  and  Memory's  joys  among, 
Like  some  loved  relic  of  romantic  song 
Or  cherish'd  masteri)iece  of  ancient  art. 

III. 

His  life  was  private;  safely  led,  aloof 
From  the  loud  world — which  yet  he  understood 
Largely  and  justly,  as  no  worldling  could. 
For  he,  by  privilege  of  his  nature  proof 
Against  false  glitter,  from  beneath  the  roof 
Of  j)rivacy,  as  from  a  cave,  survey'd 
Witii  steadfast  eye  its  flickering  light  and  shade, 
And  wisely  judged  for  evil  and  for  good. 
But  whilst  he  mix'd  not  for  his  own  behoof 
In  public  strife,  bis  spirit  glow'd  with  zeal, 
Not  shorn  of  action,  for  the  public  weal — 
For  truth  and  justice  as  its  warp  and  woof, 
For  freedom  as  its  signature  and  seal. 


Stanzas.  6 

His  life  thus  sacred  from  tlie  world,  discharged 

From  vain  ambition  and  inordinate  care, 

In  virtue  exercised,  by  reverence  rare 

Lifted,  and  by  humility  enlarged, 

Became  a  temple  and  a  place  of  prayer. 

In  latter  years  he  walked  not  singly  there; 

For  one  was  with  him,  ready  at  all  hours 

His  griefs,  his  joys,  his  inmost  thoughts  to  share, 

Who  buoyantly  his  burthens  help'd  to  bear 

And  deck'd  his  altars  daily  with  fresh  flowers, 

IV. 

But  farther  may  we  pass  not ;  for  the  ground 

Is  holier  than  the  Muse  herself  may  tread  ; 

Nor  would  I  it  should  echo  to  a  sound 

Less  solemn  than  the  service  for  the  dead. 

JNIine  is  inferior  matter — ray  own  loss — 

The  loss  of  dear  delights  forever  fled, 

Of  reason's  converse  by  aflfection  fed, 

Of  wisdom,  counsel,  solace,  that  across 

Life's  dreariest  tracts  a  tender  radiance  shed. 

Friend  of  my  youth!  though  younger,  yet  my  guide, 

How  much  by  thine  unerring  insight  clear 

I  shaped  my  way  of  life  for  many  a  year. 

What  thoughtful  friendship  on  thy  deathbed  died ! 

Friend  of  my  youth,  whilst  tiiou  wast  by  my  side 

Autumnal  days  still  breathed  a  vernal  breath ; 

How  like  a  charm  thy  life  to  me  supplied 

All  waste  and  injury  of  time  and  tide  ; 

How  hke  a  disenchantment  was  thy  death !" 

There  are  letters  from  the  widow,  from  Miss  Fenwick, 
from  my  father  and  mother,  and  others  who  knew  Edward 
Villiers,  bearing  witness  to  the  truth  of  the  poem  as  a 
portrait.  They  are  expressed  in  language  which  I  do  not 
fully  reproduce — not  because  I  should  have  any  real  dif- 
ficulty in  rejjeating  praises  of  my  poetry,  for  there  is 
something  wanting  in  me  to  create  difficulties  of  that  nat- 
ure— but  because  I  do  not  like  to  mix  up  more  than  is 


*  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

necessary  the  trullifulncss  whicli  is  recognized  in  the  let- 
ters with  anything  of  inferior  interest.  And,  indeed,  it  is 
by  no  means  an  advantage  to  a  poem  of  the  kind,  in  its 
effect  upon  those  who  read  it  merely  as  poetry  and  not  as 
a  record,  that  their  simj^ly  due  and  impersonal  apprecia- 
tion should  be  brought  into  juxtaposition  with  the  senti- 
ments of  those  to  whom  the  poem  appealed  through  their 
affections. 

My  mother  writes  that  she  never  met  with  a  picture 
which  was  "so  perfect  a  resemblance,  so  exactly  as  he 
stands  in  my  remembrance  of  him;"  adding  that  there 
was  only  one  thing  slie  did  not  recognize,  "the  'stern- 
ness;' and  though  you  call  it  a  'sweet  austerity,'  I  did  not 
happen  to  get  a  glimpse  of  it."  I  rejilied  that  her  letter 
had  pleased  mo  very  much;  because, "  though  our  tastes 
in  poetry  are  often  far  apart,  yet  our  feeling  about  human 
nature  and  character,  with  all  their  outward  indications, 
has  always  been  one  and  the  same,  and  you  would  know 
therefore,  better  than  any  one  else,  what  I  wished  to  ex- 
press in  the  poem  and  how  far  I  had  succeeded.  The 
sternness  which  you  say  you  did  not  see,  was  what  you 
never  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing.  It  came  over  him 
in  his  casual  intercourse  with  people  of  the  world  with 
whom  lie  had  no  sympathy." 

My  father,  recurring  to  the  subject  after  reading  a  let- 
ter from  Mrs.  E.  Villiers,  which  I  had  sent  him,  says: 
"The  letter  does  indeed  fulfil  all  I  had  anticipated,  and 
delights  us  on  her  account  and  on  yours.  I  cannot  imag- 
ine a  more  soothing  and  lasting  pleasure  in  the  retrospect 
of  lost  happiness,  than  for  her  to  look  back  on  it  as  em- 
balmed in  such  a  tribute  of  love.  ...  I  have  never  been 
able  to  read  the  verses  or  Mrs.  Edward's  letter  without 
tears  of  pleasure  and  sadness  and  sympathy  with  her  and 
you." 


Opinions  of  the  Poem.  7 

Edward  Villiers  bad  been  longer  and  more  intimately 
known  to  Miss  Fen  wick  tban  to  my  fatber  and  motber; 
and  it  is  tbus  tbat  sbe  writes:  "Could  you  bave  seen  with 
wbat  deep  emotion  I  read  your  lines  on  Edward  Villiers, 
and  how  my  heart  responded  to  their  truth,  you  would  be 
better  pleased  tban  by  the  laureate  [Wordsworth]  pro- 
nouncing them  to  be  very  beautiful.  .  .  .  One  whole  day  I 
bad  to  devour  them  by  myself.  I  liked  it  better  that  way 
for  one  day;  but  the  next  I  wanted  to  impart  my  treasure, 
and  the  old  poet  found  his  way  through  one  of  those  black, 
rainy  days  which  visit  these  delightful  regions  now  and 
then.  .  .  .  He  had  no  fault  to  find,  and  he  felt  them.  Dear 
Mrs.  E.  v.,  how  she  will  feel  them!  How  true  they  are! 
Yet  you  alone  could  have  given  that  truth. . . .  How  grate- 
ful must  those  who  Jcnoio  their  truth  be  to  have  that  truth 
given  in  words  that  cannot  be  forgotten!" 


Chapter  II. 

RETURN   TO    ENGLAND. —ALICE    LEFT   AT    SCIIWALBACII   TO 

COMMUNE  WITH  HERSELF.— AUBREY  DE  YERE   CONVERTED 

INTO    A    PRACTICAL     MAN.  —  MEDITATIONS    ON    ITALY    IN 

STANZAS    ENTITLED    "  LAGO    LUGANO."  — CORRESPONDENCE 

RESULTING  WITH  SIR  EDMUND  HEAD  AND  SIR  FREDERICK 

ELLIOT. 

Anno  Dom.  ISU.     Anno  .^t.  U. 

By  the  month  of  May  I  was  so  far  re-established  in 
health  as  to  be  able  to  return  to  my  duties  in  Downing 
Street;  but  my  wife's  health,  it  was  thought,  would  be 
better  for  a  few  weeks  of  the  waters  at  Schwalbach;  and 
accordingly  we  parted  at  the  Rhine,  and,  leaving  her  to 
find  her  way  thither,  Aubrey  de  Vere  and  1  came  home. 

I  do  not  know  that  a  generous  alBfection  has  ever  wrought 
a  more  wonderful  work  than  it  did  on  our  travels  in  con- 
verting Aubrey  de  Vere  into  a  practical  man.  The  most 
experienced  courier  could  not  have  made  arrangements 
for  us  day  by  day  and  hour  by  hour,  or  bargained  with 
hotel-keepers  and  Vetturini  more  successfully  or  with  more 
vigilant  care  and  assiduity.  In  the  September  following 
I  wrote  to  him:  "  We  passed  a  very  pleasant  evening  with 
you  yesterday,  reading  over  your  old  letters,  very  old, 
some  of  them,  others  recent,  and  reading  also  Alice's  jotty 
journal  got  up  ex  post  facto  ;  and  all  that  you  had  been 
to  us  and  are  to  us  came  over  us  '  with  a  power  and  with 
a  sign;'  and  if  we  are  not  better  for  all  your  love  and 
care,  dear  Aubrey,  I  am  sure  there  is  not  that  love  and 
care  on  earth  that  will  make  us  so;  and  though  that  may 


My  Wife  at  Schwalbach.  » 

be,  yet  it  is  as  -well  to  take  a  different  view  of  it  and  think 
better  of  ourselves  for  the  present.  ...  I  vrish  you  were 
here  to  help  us  with  the  journal  I  have  but  a  dim  and 
confused  memory,  and  few  of  the  days  of  my  life  stand 
plotted  out  in  my  mind  as  almost  all  our  days  abroad 
seem  to  do  in  Alice's;  but  the  jots  help  me  to  a  good  deal, 
and  it  is  very  pleasant  to  be  able  to  revive  the  past  and 
choose  the  mood  of  mind  in  which  one  lives  it  over  again. 
Oh!  those  moods  which  were  not  chosen,  and  worse,  those 
which  were  ill-chosen!  Why  could  you  not  give  me  your 
alchemy  of  mind,  or,  rather,  why  could  I  not  take  it?  for 
I  know  that  you  would  have  given  it  me,  if- 1  had  been 
capable  of  it,  at  any  cost," 

Alice  was  left  with  no  companionship  but  that  of  her 
maid  and  a  child  of  Charles  Elliot's  who  had  been  given 
into  our  charge  during  the  absence  of  his  father  on  foreign 
service,  but  she  found  nothing  to  complain  of  in  her  soli- 
tude. And  I  Avrote  to  my  mother,  "  Alice's  solitude  has 
been  very  good  for  her.  '  Fasting,'  some  one  has  said, '  is 
angels'  food;'  and  so  it  may  be  to  some;  and  solitude  may 
be  supernal  society." 

She  went  into  the  woods,  she  says,  in  a  letter  to  me, 
"  Sometimes  with  a  book  for  a  companion,  sometimes  with 
a  letter,  sometimes  with  only  pleasant  thoughts  and  fan- 
cies and  plans;  but  in  the  last,  the  plans,  I  rather  deny 
myself;  for  were  I  to  indulge  in  them  I  could  make  earth 
heaven  by  bringing  heaven  down  to  earth,  instead  of  do- 
ing what  we  may  do,  carrying  earth  up  to  heaven.  I  wish 
you  could  have  been  with  me  this  morning — this  one 
morning;  or  if  that  would  have  been  too  great  a  pleasure, 
I  wish  you  could  have  had  a  glass  to  show  you  how  fair 
and  bright  everything  was,  and  how  freshly  and  strongly 
and  enjoyingly  I  walked  along  through  the  wood  with  all 
sweet  wild  flowers  glistening  with  dewdrops  and  the  long 
II.— 1* 


10  AutoViograjpliy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

grasses  trembling  in  the  sunshine.  And  the  birds  and  1 
had  the  wood  all  to  ourselves,  and  not  a  creature  did  I 
meet,  till  at  last,  like  a  coward,  as  you  know  I  am,  I  got 
afraid  of  being  so  alone  and  so  far  away,  and  turned  back 
again  and  welcomed  right  gladly  the  sound  of  the  mowar 
sharpening  his  scythe.  '  Far  off,  but  not  too  far,'  is  what 
I  like  best;  but  what  I  like  least  is  a  crowd;  and  I  dare 
say  I  should  soon,  if  I  stayed  here  long  enough,  learn  to 
walk  very  boldly  by  myself  all  day.  In  the  meantime  I 
am  not  so  wearied  of  my  life  as  you  would  think;  not  so 
much  so  even  as  a  pretty  Tyrolese  girl,  who  I  fancied  was 
married  to  a  handsome  Tyrolese  boy,  because  I  had  seen 
him  often  with  his  arm  round  her  waist.  'Ah,  no,'  she 
said,  'I  am  not  married  to  him,  nor  shall  I  ever  be;  but 
in  these  watering-places  we  are  both  so  dull ;  we  kiss  be- 
cause we  have  nothing  else  to  do.'  I  dare  say  hers  were 
not  the  first  kisses  given  out  of  ennui, pour  passer  le  temps. 
I  think  she  is  very  good;  she  has  a  bright,  happy,  simple, 
and  very  pure  face,  and  I  am  sorry  her  kisses  should  be  so 
squandered.  ...  I  had  a  very  happy  evening  last  night, 

though  it  was  a  sad  one  too.     I  had  sent  F early  to 

bed,  and  I  was  lying  on  the  sofa,  looking  out  of  the  Avin- 
dow,  when  something  reminded  me  of  Edward  Yilliers; 
and  in  one  short  hour  there  passed  through  my  recollec- 
tion all  the  times  I  had  ever  seen  him,  from  the  first  even- 
ing in  H — —  L 's  little  house,  when  he  came  to  survey 

me  for  your  sake,  to  the  last  day  at  Nice — our  first  visit 
to  Grove  Mill  together — our  happy  Sunday  evenings  in 
Cambridge  Terrace — our  pleasant  Blandford  Square  din- 
ners when  they  were  tete-d-tete  with  us — our  mock  quarrels 
— his  affectionately  respectful  ways  with  your  father  and 
mother — his  pleasant  way  of  calling  you  'Henry'  to  please 
jne — our  visit  to  him  at  Tunbridge  Wells — the  sound  of 
his  voice,  the  look  of  his  eyes,  his  smile,  all  came  back  so 


Return  to  England.  11 

really  to  me  and  so  near,  and  then  it  mms  all  gone,  and  we 
were  at  Nice,  and  I  saw  only  the  beauty  of  his  Avasted 
face  when  he  raised  his  hands  and  head  and  told  us  that 
he  died  at  peace  with  God  and  in  love  to  all  his  friends. 
And  then  again  I  seemed  to  have,  as  I  looked  at  the  even- 
ing clouds,  a  vision  of  him  as  he  might  now  be — the  same 
face  and  form  indeed,  so  graceful  and  so  sweet,  so  good 
and  so  noble,  but  a  more  elastic  step,  and  a  more  clear 
and  beaming  eye;  and  the  mere  visionary  fancy  was  more 
pleasant  to  me  than  realities  can  often  be.  Dear,  dear 
Edward,  and  dearly  and  truly  did  he  love  you." 

I  spent  the  time  of  our  separation  with  Miss  Fenwick, 
who  had  taken  a  house  at  Hampstead  to  receive  me  in, 
and  I  was  met  by  all  sorts  of  attentions  and  services  on 
the  part  of  Lord  Monteagle  and  his  family.  Of  him  I 
wrote,  "There  are  few  things  that  can  be  thought  of  on 
my  account  that  he  fails  to  think  of;"  and  of  his  family, 
"  No  man  certainly  could  be  thrown  among  a  set  of  more 
cordial  and  affectionate  people  than  these  Spring  Rices; 
they  seem  to  be  all  as  glad  to  have  me  home  again  as  if  I 
were  still  more  one  of  themselves  than  I  am."  And  if  I 
was  happy  at  home  in  a  matter-of-fact  way,  I  had  the  sat- 
isfaction of  being  abroad  in  a  visionary  way;  for  I  Avrote 
to  Alice,  "  I  am  all  with  you  in  the  woods  at  Schwalbach. 
I  remember  those  woods  and  their  red  beech-leaf  flooring, 
and  I  can  see  you  walking  and  sitting  in  them,  and  never 

did 

'Oread  or  Dryad  glancing  tliro'  tlie  shade' 

delight  the  eyes  of  any  solitary  old  satyr  more  than  you 
do  mine." 

"  Visionary "  is  the  word  I  used,  but  from  Aubrey  de 
Vere's  point  of  view  the  visionary  and  the  real  change 
places.  "  I  do  not  know  whether  other  people  find  it  so," 
he  says,  in  a  letter  to  Alice,  of  September,  1844,  "but  to 


13  Aut6biograj)hy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

me  it  seems  that  our  deepest  tliouglits  and  most  sacred 
feelings  with  respect  to  those  -whom  we  love  are  given  to 
us  in  their  absence;  as  if  in  the  human  affections  as  well 
as  in  heavenly  things  there  existed  some  antagonism  be- 
tween sight  and  faith;  and  as  if  the  deepest  realities  must 
ever  remain  in  the  region  of  the  unseen,  while  all  that  Ave 
actually  behold  partakes  more  or  less  of  the  visionary." 

The  impression  made  upon  me  by  Italy  in  its  social  and 
political  aspect  found  a  place  in  some  stanzas  of  a  jiocm 
called  "  Lago  Lugano,"  written  after  a  walk  we  had  taken 
to  that  lake;  and  these  are  they: 

"  XIII. 

Tlience  we  rcturn'd,  revolving  as  we  went 

Tlie  lessons  tliis  and  previous  days  had  taught 
In  rambling  meditations;  and  we  sought 
To  read  the  face  of  Itah',  intent 
With  equal  eye  and  just  arbitrement 
To  measure  its  expressions  as  we  ought : 
And  chiefly  one  conclusion  did  we  draw — 
That  liberty  dwelt  here  with  Heaven's  consent, 
Though  not  by  human  law. 

XIV. 

A  liberty  imperfect,  undesign'd — 
A  liberty  of  circumstance  ;  but  still 
A  liberty  that  moulds  the  heart  and  will 
And  works  an  inward  freedom  of  the  mind. 
Not  such  is  statutable  freedom  :  blind 
Are  they  to  whom  the  letter  that  dotli  kill 

Stands  for  the  s])irit  that  giveth  life  :  sore  pains 
They  take  to  set  Ambition  free,  and  bind 
The  heart  of  man  in  chains. 

XV. 

I  Ambition,  Envy,  Avarice,  and  Pride — 

These  are  the  tyrants  of  our  hearts :  the  laws 
Which  cherish  these  in  multitudes,  and  cause 
The  passions  that  aforetime  lived  and  died 


"  Lago  LuganoP  13 

In  palaces,  to  flomish  fiir  and  wide 
Throughout  a  hiiid— (allot  tliein  what  applause 
We  may,  for  wealth  and  science  that  they  nurse, 
And  greatness) — seen  upon  their  darker  side 
Bear  the  primeval  curse. 

XVI. 

Oh,  England !   '  JNIeriy  England,'  styled  of  yore ! 
Where  is  tliy  mirth  ?     Tliy  jocund  laughter,  where  ? 
The  sweat  of  labor  on  the  brow  of  care 
Makes  a  mute  answer — driven  from  every  door! 
The  may-pole  cheers  the  village  green  no  more, 
Nor  harvest-home  nor  Christmas  mummers  rare ; 
The  tired  mechanic  at  his  lecture  sighs. 
And  of  tlie  learned,  which,  with  all  his  lore. 
Has  leisure  to  be  wise  ? 

XVII. 

Civil  and  moral  liberty  are  twain  : 

That  truth  the  careless  countenances  free 
Of  Italy  avouch 'd  ;  that  truth  did  we. 
On  converse  grounds  and  willi  reluctant  pain, 
Confess  that  England  proved.     Wash  first  the  stain 
Of  worldliness  away  ;  when  that  shall  be. 
Us  shall  'the  glorious  liberty'  befit 
Whereof,  in  other  far  than  earthly  strain, 
The  Jew  of  Tarsus  writ. 

XVI II. 

So  shall  the  noble  natures  of  our  land 
(Oh  nobler  and  more  deeply  founded  far 
Than  any  born  beneath  a  Southern  star) 
Move  more  at  large,  with  ampler  reach  expand, 
Be  open,  courteous,  not  more  strong  to  stand 
Than  just  to  yield — nor  obvious  to  each  jar 

That  shakes  the  proud  ;  for  Independence  walks 
With  staid  Humility  aye  hand  in  hand, 
Whilst  Pride  in  tremor  stalks. 

XIX. 

From  pride  plebeian  and  from  pride  high-born. 
From  pride  of  knowledge  no  less  vain  and  weak. 


14  Autobiography  of  Hewry  Taylor. 

From  overstiaiiicd  activities,  tliat  seek 
Ends  Avoithiest  of  iiulifTerence  or  scorn, 
From  pride  of  intellect,  that  exalts  its  hom 
In  contumely  above  the  wise  and  meek. 
Exulting  in  coarse  cruellies  of  the  pen, 
From  pride  of  drudging  souls  to  Mammon  sworn, 
Where  shall  we  flee  and  w  hen  ? 

XX. 

One  House  of  Refuge  in  this  dreary  waste 

Was,  through  God's  mercy,  by  our  fathers  built — 
That  house  the  Church  :  oh,  England,  if  the  guilt 
Of  pride  and  greed  thy  grandeur  have  abased, 
Thy  liberty  endanger'd,  here  be  placed 

Thy  trust :  thy  freedom's  garment,  if  thou  wilt, 
To  j)iece  by  charters  and  by  statutes  strive, 
But  to  its  personal  rescue,  haste,  oh  haste! 
And  save  its  soul  alive." 

I  sent  the  poena  to  Sir  Edmund  Head,  and  here  are  some 
comments  by  liim: 

"Free  laws  do  not  make  liberty — a  man  legally  free 
may  be  in  sjiirit  a  slave — but  I  also  believe  that  a  man 
■who  is  legally  a  slave  will  not  be  long  free  in  sjyirit. 

"The  Spanish  Constitution  of  1823  did  not  make  the 
Spaniards  free;  the  spirit  was  not  there  to  act  in  harmony 
with  the  mere  dead  letter  of  the  law:  but  in  my  opinion 
no  such  spirit  would  have  survived  the  continued  pressure 
of  the  political  institutions  which  prevailed  under  the 
Bourbon  kings. 

"To  pass  on  to  the  question  of  energy  and  thought  ab- 
sorbed in  those  pursuits  which  prevail  in  this  country,  and 
contrasted  with  the  careless  joyousness  of  Italy. 

"In  the  first  place,  I  am  prepared  to  maintain  that,  not 
only  in  a  collective  and  national  point  of  view,  but  also 
in  an  individual  capacity,  the  English  merchant  or  manu- 
facturer is  superior  in  vigorous  action  and  in  calm  pru- 
dence in  the  management  of  his  fellow-men  to  the  French- 


Comments  hy  Sir  E.  Head.  15 

man  or  the  German,  to  say  nothing  of  the  Italian.  Now 
this  superiority  is,  in  my  opinion,  OAving  to  the  predomi- 
nance of  those  very  qualities  which  are  incomjiatible  with 
the  thoughtless,  happy  temperament  which  you  hold  up  in 
your  poem. 

"You  will  say  these  qualities  are  misapplied;  their 
devotion  to  such  objects  as  they  now  are  directed  to  is 
overstrained.  I  will  not  deny  that  this  may  be  so,  but  I 
do  not  think  human  nature  is  so  constituted  that  we  can 
say  to  energies  of  this  description, '  Thus  far,  and  no  far- 
ther.' 

"If  this  be  so,  it  may  be  asked,  'Is  the  result  worth 
purchasing  at  the  price  we  pay  for  it  ?' 

"Zbelieve  that  it  is.  I  believe  that  a  greater  average  of 
individual  excellence  and  happiness  is  secured  by  these 
qualities  thus  developed.  I  see  and  admit  the  evils,  but  I 
do  not  think  you  can  in  any  case  secure  the  good  of  two 
incompatible  characters. 

"Now,  let  us  admit  for  a  moment  that  a  nation  of  small 
proprietors,  with  no  absorbing  pursuit  of  money  or  fame 
to  spur  them  on  beyond  a  certain  equable  rate,  would  en- 
joy for  a  given  time  a  more  pure  and  tranquil  happiness. 
Let  us  assume  that  we  had  been  such  up  to  the  end  of  the 
last  century — where  should  we  have  been  now  ?  As  I  be- 
lieve, a  province  of  France,  abased  and  degraded  by  slav- 
ery and  tyranny  of  every  species  for  the  last  forty  years. 
I  think  our~national  greatness  alone  saved  us,  and  that  our 
national  greatness  depends  on  those  very  qualities  with 
whose  action  you  find  fault. 

"In  estimating  the  average  produce  of  happiness  this 
consideration  must  not  be  overlooked. 

"  You  will  see,  therefore,  my  dear  Taylor,  that  I  do  not 
dispute  the  existence  of  this  contrast  to  which  you  refer. 
I  do  not  overlook  the  evil — I  do  not  miss  the  poetical  view 


16  Autdbiograjphy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

which  this  contrast  admits  of  fairly  and  properly.  My  ob- 
jection is  simply  that,  in  the  poem  to  Avhich  I  allude,  I  think 
you  have- taken  a  tone  of  moral  reasoning  of  that  gravity 
which  requires  to  be  based  on  the  truth,  and  on  nothing 
else;  and,  in  my  opinion,  it  is  not  true  that  the  superior- 
ity which  you  claim  for  us  Northerners  can  coexist  with 
the  qualities  and  tendencies  which  you  there  exhibit  in  the 
Southerners.  I  do  not  deny  the  attractive  nature  of  these 
qualities  and  tendencies.  They  necessarily  present  them- 
selves, to  every  one  who  knows  what  the  South  of  Europe 
is,  as  an  object  of  envy;  but,  if  I  must  take  them  without 
the  other  elements,  I  think  reason  would  refuse  them." 

To  those  strictures  I  made  this  reply: 

"  When  I  saw  your  letter  I  was  rather  ashamed  of  hav- 
ing betrayed  a  man  occupied  as  you  are  into  such  a  dis- 
cussion. But  you  could  not  have  bestowed  the  trouble 
upon  any  one  who  Avould  feel  more  interest  in  your  views 
on  these  subjects, 

"  I  by  no  means  dissent  from  the  general  tenor  of  your 
views;  and  I  admit  that,  if  my  poem  be  supposed  to  re- 
quire a  combination  of  all  the  easiness  of  the  Italian  nat- 
ure with  all  the  steadiness  and  energy  of  the  English,  it 
requires  a  chimera.  The  qualities,  in  their  absoluteness, 
are  incompatible.  But  I  construe  my  poem  as  not  going 
that  length,  but  signifying  rather  that  some  2)ortion  of  our 
inordinate  and  misdirected  energy  might  be  abated,  and 
that  some  2'>ortloii  of  the  Italian  liberty  of  heart  might 
then  be  combined  with  it.  I  admit,  however,  that  this  is 
putting  a  rather  liberal  construction  upon  it,  and  that 
what  it  will  convey  to  most  readers  is  mainly  one  view; 
or  a  view  which  you  may,  if  you  please,  call  one-sided. 
But  then  I  maintain  that  that  view  is  what  you  require 
that  it  should  be, '  the  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth.' 
That  it  is  the  '  whole  truth '  I  am,  indeed,  far  from  af- 


My  Rej^hj.  17 

firming;  but  tliis  I  conceive  that  it  is  not  the  province  of 
poems,  any  more  than  of  proverbs,  to  produce;  and  in  the 
case  of  a  truth  like  this,  which  blends  itself  with  so  many- 
other  truths  in  all  their  mixtures  and  modifications,  it 
would  be  hard  to  say  what  is  to  constitute  its  wholeness; 
or,  if  we  are  not  to  be  content  with  contemplating  one 
side  at  once,  where  we  are  to  stop.  I  admit  that  it  should 
be  avowedly  one  side  (or,  may  I  not  better  say,  one  truth, 
or  set  of  truths,  out  of  many  bearing  diversely  on  the  sub- 
ject), and  that  some  glances  at  the  opposing  truths  should 
be  given  by  way  of  recognition  that  there  are  such.  But 
are  not  these  requisitions  fulfilled  in  the  poem?  "When 
the  poem  speaks  of  English  laws,  it  speaks  of  them  as  what 
they  are  'seen  upon  their  darker  side,'  and  when  it  speaks 
of  English  natures  as  degraded  by  worldliness  and  ambi- 
tion, it  glances  parenthetically  at  the  nobler  and  deeper 
foundations  on  which  they  rest. 

"The  set  of  truths  which  I  have  apj^lied  myself  to  en- 
force are  those  Avhich  apjjear  to  me  to  be  most  important 
in  the  present  state  of  English  society,  and  the  most  over- 
looked. For  the  antagonist  truths  there  is  no  want  of  ad- 
vocates. Nor  is  there,  I  think,  any  danger  at  present  of 
reducing  commercial  and  political  activity  to  such  a  j^oint 
as  would  cripple  the  country  in  its  contests  with  foreign 
powers.  It  is  more  likely,  I  think,  to  be  crippled  by  a 
gambling  greediness  in  its  commercial  proceedings,  and 
by  the  ignorant  presumption  of  a  political  populace.  Yet 
there  is,  I  think,  much  more  truth  in  what  you  say — that 
the  power  of  the  country  to  resist  Bonaparte  arose  out  of 
the  same  sources  which  give  birth  to  our  evil  passions, 
political  and  commercial.  From  all  sources  in  human 
nature  mingling  streams  of  good  and  evil  will  ever  be 
found  to  flow;  and  while  we  acknowledge  that  the  good 
proceeds  from  the  same  source  as  the  evil,  and  cannot  exist 


18  Autdbiogra'phy  of  Henry  Tmjlor. 

without  it,  what  we  have  still  to  do  is  to  make  the  most 
of  the  one  and  the  least  of  the  other.  I  hold  a  reformed 
Parliament  to  be  a  good  thing;  yet  something  of  the  same 
argument  which  you  have  used  might  be  directed,  mutatis 
mutandis,  against  that ;  for  I  think  there  can  be  little 
doubt  that,  if  we  had  had  a  reformed  Parliament  at  the 
time  of  the  Peninsular  War,  the  Duke  of  Wellington 
would  have  been  recalled  before  it  was  half  fought  out. 

"After  all,  I  do  not  know  that  there  is  any  other  differ- 
ence in  our  views  than  that  you  would  be  more  tolerant  of 
one  kind  of  excess  and  I  of  another,  and  that  you  would 
be  less  afraid  than  I  of  i:)lucking  up  the  tares." 

And  on  these  letters  followed  one  from  Sir  Frederick 
Elliot: 

"I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  sending  me  the  corre- 
spondence Avith  Head.  After  all,  that  two  such  men  as 
he  and  you  should  be  engaged,  in  the  midst  of  this  capi- 
tal, in  writing  letters  on  such  subjects,  appears  to  me  no 
bad  sign  of  the  times.  It  would  be  idle  as  well  as  pre- 
sumptuous in  me  to  add  to  the  correspondence,  and  yet 
two  things  I  cannot  help  saying. 

"Although  the  world  around  us  may  be  too  busy  and 
too  noisy,  is  it  not  some  consolation  that  speculation  seems 
always  to  have  thriven  most  in  the  times  of  greatest  ac- 
tion, so  that  one  may  be  supposed  necessary  to  the  other? 
International  wars,  civil  wars,  troubles  of  all  sorts,  seem 
to  have  been  the  parents  of  the  greatest  wisdom  and  the 
highest  art;  as  if  reflection  that  is  snatched  were  more 
prolific  than  reflection  that  can  be  indulged.  But,  per- 
haps, at  any  rate,  the  action  ought  to  be  of  rather  a  nobler 
kind  than  Avhen  everybody  is  absorbed,  as  at  present,  in 
trying  to  catch  a  little  extra  profit  at  somebody  else's  ex- 
pense. 

"If,  again,  we  dismiss  action  and  speculation  together, 


Comments  hy  Sir  F.  Elliot.  19 

and  think  onl}'  of  the  easy  enjoyment  of  life,  is  there  not 
some  reason  to  suppose  that  climate  exercises  a  greater 
influence  than  even  race  or  political  arrangements?  Un- 
der a  southern  sky  existence  itself  is  a  delight,  and  we 
English  have  known  there  what  it  is  to  enjoy  a  lazy  hap- 
piness. But  in  our  heavy  atmosphere  leisure  itself  but 
leaves  a  man  the  readier  prey  to  melancholy,  and  I  doubt 
whether  business  does  not  expel  more  cares  than  it  brings. 
"  With  which  comfortable  sentiment,  for  a  man  to  write 
from  a  desk  where,  at  this  season,  all  his  daylight  is  spent, 
leaving  him  no  better  off  at  the  hours  which  are  his  own 
than  an  Esquimau  or  a  bat,  I  remain,  etc." 


Chapter  III. 

LONDON  REVILED  AND  RENOUNCED.— HOUSE  TAKEN  AT  MORT- 
LAKE.— COLONIAL  GOVERNMENT  NOT  DESIRED.-OFFICE  OF 
UNDER  SECRETARY  OF  STATE  REFUSED.— "  VAN  ARTEVELDE  " 
ACTED.— A  POEM. 

Anno  Dom.  18-14-47.     Anno  ^t.  44-47. 

^YIIEN"  I  came  back  to  London  that  misbegotten  me- 
tropolis presented  itself  to  me  in  a  different  light  from 
any  in  which  I  had  seen  it  before.  I  wrote  to  Alice,  21st 
June,  1844: 

"  Shall  we  not  get  rid  of  Blandford  Square,  and  lead  an 
easy,  in-and-out-of-doors,  house-and-garden  life  on  Wim- 
bledon Common  ?  We  shall  be  wiser  and  better  and 
healthier  and  happier  for  it,  and  the  postman's  knock  and 
all  the  other  knocks  and  nuisances  that  flesh  is  heir  to  in 
London  will  come  at  longer  intervals,  and  a  fresh  face 
shall  I  see  in  the  morning  Avhen  I  look  round,  and  a  fresh 
eye  shall  I  have  to  see  it  with." 

And  my  letter  Avas  crossed  by  one  from  her  to  me,  pro- 
posing the  same  thing.    Then  I  wrote  to  Aubrey  de  Vere: 

"We  shall  not  live  in  London  again,  whether  I  retire 
or  not.  We  are  quite  of  one  mind  as  to  that.  It  is  ordy 
necessary,  but  it  is  necessary,  to  get  to  a  little  distance  for 
a  little  time  to  see  what  a  monster  it  is.  One  cannot  see 
Leviathan  from  his  belly,  but  get  outside  of  him,  and 
there  he  is."  My  sentiments  about  London  seem  to  have 
been  not  much  more  flattering  than  those  of  Cowley,  in 
his  "Ode  to  Solitude:" 


Ladon  House.  21 

"  Methinks  I  see 
The  monster  London  laugh  at  me. 

I  should  at  tliee,  too,  foohsh  city, 
If  it  were  fit  to  laugh  at  misery ; 

But  thy  estate  I  pity. 
Let  but  thy  wicked  men  from  out  thee  go, 
And  all  the  fools  that  crowd  thee  so, 

Even  thou,  who  dost  thy  millions  boast, 
A  village  less  than  Islington  would  grow, 

A  solitude  almost." 

"We  took  a  house  at  Mortlake,  on  the  banks  of  the 
Thames,  and  I  called  it  Ladon  House.  It  was  far  enough 
off  from  shepherds  and  lilies,  but  the  lines, 

"Nymphs  and  shepherds  trip  no  more 
By  sandy  Ladon's  lilied  banks," 

happened  to  be  in  my  head  when  I  went  to  see  it,  and  so 
the  name  came  to  it  by  a  merely  verbal  and  haphazard 
association.  From  the  perpetual  and  often  very  incon- 
venient repetition  of  the  same  names,  especially  in  nam- 
ing streets,  one  might  suppose  that  a  distinctive  name 
was  a  thing  not  easily  to  be  invented.  People  seem  to 
seek  needlessly  for  something  apposite,  and  to  shrink 
from  what  is  arbitrary,  and  forget  that  for  the  purposes 
of  a  name  distinctiveness  is  generally  the  one  thing  need- 
ful. 

We  lived  in  Ladon  House  for  about  eight  years,  and 
it  was  there,  on  the  16th  April,  1845,  that  my  first  child 
Avas  born. 

In  1845  Gladstone  had  become  secretary  of  state  for 
the  colonies,  and  in  April,  1846, 1  wrote  to  ray  mother: 

"  Have  I  told  you,  or  have  I  not,  of  some  communica- 
tions which  I  had  with  Gladstone,  soon  after  he  had  come 
into  office,  about  a  desire  that  he  had  to  promote  me? 
He  told  Stephen  that  he  supposed  I  must  be  tired  of  re- 
maining so  long  in  the  position  in  which  I  am,  and  must 


23  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

bo  looking  for  some  promotion,  and  inquired  whether 
Stephen  could  tell  what  my  wishes  were,  and  Avhether  a 
government  would  be  what  I  would  like.  Stephen  re- 
plied that  a  government  would  not  suit  my  health  unless 
it  were  in  a  good  climate,  and  that  it  would  be  a  risk  to 
my  health  also  if  it  involved  (as  almost  all  the  chief  gov- 
ernments do)  great  labor  and  responsibility,  Stephen 
added  that  he  could  think  of  nothing  that  would  bet- 
ter my  condition  unless  it  were  one  of  the  revenue  com- 
missionerships  (i.  e.,  commissioner  of  customs,  excise,  or 
stamps),  and  he  did  not  know  whether  I  would  think 
that  preferable  to  what  I  have.  Stephen  having  men- 
tioned this  to  me,  I  took  an  opportunity  of  telling  Glad- 
stone that  I  was  much  obliged  to  hira,  but  that  as  long  as 
people  at  the  colonial  office  were  as  kind  to  me  as  they 
were  and  had  been,  I  could  not  be  better  than  as  I  am." 

And  in  December,  1846,  when  Gladstone  had  been  suc- 
ceeded by  Lord  Grey,  a  question  arose,  not  as  to  promo- 
tion out  of  the  colonial  office,  but  promotion  within  it. 

"  James  Stephen "  (under  seci'etary  of  state)  "  told  me 
the  other  day  that  he  had  apprised  Lord  Grey  of  the 
necessity  of  looking  out  for  some  one  to  succeed  him,  say- 
ing that  although  he  could  not  make  it  clear  to  his  con- 
science to  say  that  he  would  retire  this  week  or  next,  or 
in  a  way  to  occasion  great  inconvenience,  yet  he  must  be 
considered  as  a  man  who  had  given  notice  to  quit.  Lord 
Grey  dwelt  on  the  difficulty  of  replacing  him,  and  the 
necessity  of  having  a  man  who  had  been  tried  and  proved 
to  fill  his  place,  and  said  that  he  contemplated  j^roposing 
it  to  mo.  Stephen  told  him  that  ho  did  not  think  it 
would  answer  to  me  to  nndertake  it — that  I  was  not  liv- 
ing for  the  day — that  my  official  life  was  merely  submit- 
ted to  for  the  sake  of  a  viaticum,  and  that  my  objects 
were  elsewhere.      To  this,  Lord   Grey  rejoined   that  I 


Office  of  Under  Secretary  Refused.  23 

might  try  it.  On  learning  this,  I  told  Stephen  that  I 
looked  upon  it  as  out  of  the  question — that  my  body  and 
soul  were  to  be  had  twelve  or  fifteen  years  ago,  but  they 
were  now  no  longer  in  the  market,  and  that  it  would  be 
idle  to  take  up  such  an  office  without  intending  to  go 
through  with  it." 

In  the  October  following  the  question  presented  itself 
in  a  shape  no  longer  hypothetical,  for  James  Stephen  had 
an  attack  of  illness  which  determined  him  to  retire  at 
once.  Lord  Grey  did  not  offer  me  the  place  in  distinct 
terms  at  first,  but  saying  that  I,  who  would  have  been  the 
most  satisfactory  to  him,  being  out  of  the  question,  he 
wished  for  my  opinion  as  to  the  choice  of  another;  and 
on  my  advice  he  offered  it  to  James  Spedding,  He,  as  I 
have  said  in  a  former  chapter,  could  not  be  persuaded 
that  he  was  fit  for  it.  Lord  Grey  then  asked  me  to  un- 
dertake it,  and  I  also  declined  for  more  reasons  than  one, 
but  for  which  of  them  chiefly  I  hardly  know;  and  I  think 
that  in  a  letter  to  Lord  Grey,  on  my  retirement  in  1872, 1 
spoke  of  one  too  exclusively. 

I  have  a  better  memory  for  facts  than  for  motives,  and, 
till  I  came  to  look  into  the  letters  of  the  period,  I  was 
under  the  impression  that  the  main  obstacle  to  my  ac- 
ceptance was  the  fact  that  Stephen  had  consulted  me  on 
the  question  whether  he  should  retire,  and  that  I  had  ad- 
vised him  to  do  so;  having  thus  helped  to  make  the  vacancy 
which  it  was  proposed  to  me  to  fill.  That  was  no  doubt 
one  ground  of  my  proceeding,  but  from  what  had  taken 
place  in  1846,  and  from  my  letters  in  1847, 1  gather  that 
there  were  others.  A  question  might  no  doubt  be  raised, 
and  a  question  was  raised,  whether  a  man  with  an  increas- 
ing family  and  a  small  income  is  justified  in  refusing  an 
office  of  £2000  a  year  on  such  a  ground  as  that;  and  that 
was  not  the  ground  I  put  forward  to  my  friends  or  others; 


24  Aiitobiograjyhy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

I  kept  it  to  myself.  In  a  letter  to  my  father,  saying  how 
glad  I  was  to  have  his  support  in  the  course  I  had  taken, 
I  added:  "Even  had  the  office  been  compatible  Avith 
health  (which  I  feel  sure  it  would  not  have  been)  it  must 
have  been  utterly  incompatible  with  the  'Life  Poetic,' 
and  I  should  have  felt  that  I  was  deserting  the  higher 
for  the  lower  walk  in  accepting  it."  There  seems,  there- 
fore, to  have  been  a  plurality  of  motives,  each  of  which 
might  have  been  of  itself  all-sufficient. 

In  Aubrey  de  Vere's  estimation,  of  course,  the  claims 
of  the  "  Life  Poetic  "  took  their  place  as  paramount.  He 
wrote: 

"  With  my  views  of  the  public  I  am  disposed  to  be 
honest  to  it,  but  not  extravagantly  generous  to  it,  as  if  it 
too  were  generous,  or  devoted  to  it,  as  if  it  were  God. 
Modesty  as  well  as  avarice  or  vanity  often  seduces  peo- 
ple into  sacrificing  literature  to  jmblic  life,  the  remote 
good  to  the  immediate;  because  every  man  of  ability 
sees  the  result  of  his  own  practical  efficiency,  whereas  the 
results  of  his  genius  belong  to  the  regions  of  Faith.  So 
pray  believe  that  faith  as  well  as  modesty  is  a  great  vir- 
tue. And  whatever  good  you  do  to  yourself,  the  public, 
or  any  one  else,  do  no  injury  to  the  Muse;  women  are  al- 
ways so  vindictive,  and  she  is  one,'' 

It  was  contemplated  to  provide  for  James  Stephen  in 
a  paid  office  of  assessor  to  the  judicial  committee  of  the 
privy  council.  But  Lord  Monteagle  foresaw  great  diffi- 
culties in  obtaining  the  authority  of  Parliament  for  the 
creation  of  such  an  office,  and  what  he  Avrote  throws  a 
cross-light  upon  the  ways  of  Lord  Brougham: 

"  I  never  can  rely  upon  Brougham  for  doing  justice  to 
any  living  man  of  James  Stephen's  eminence.  If  the  lat- 
ter will  but  do  Brougham  the  favor  of  dying,  he  may  be 
assured  of  a  most  eloquent  panegyric  and  of  being  desig- 


Sir  J.  Stephen's  Retirement.  25 

nated  as  Brougham's  most  virtuous  and  excellent  friend, 
son  of  a  friend  most  excellent  and  virtuous,  and  the  asso- 
ciate of  all  his  toils  and  labors  for  the  liberation  of 
Africa,  etc." 

There  is  a  curiously  close  ideal  of  such  a  character  in 
La  Bruyere:  "Le  bruit  court  que  Pison  est  mort:  c'est 
une  grande  perte;  c'etoit  un  homme  de  bien,  et  qui  meri- 
toit  une  plus  longue  vie;  il  avoit  de  I'esprit  et  de  I'agre'- 
ment,  de  la  f ermete  et  du  courage ;  il  etoit  stir,  genereux, 
fiddle;  ajoutez,  pourvu  qu'il  soit  mort."  * 

Sir  James  Stephen  became  a  privy  councillor,  but  with- 
out any  paid  office.  "When  his  health  was  in  some  meas- 
ure re-established  he  was  appointed  professor  of  history 
at  Cambridge,  and  Dr.  Whewell,  the  Master  of  Trinity, 
sjioke  to  me  of  his  lectures  with  admiration  from  one 
point  of  view,  and  with  dissatisfaction  from  another.  He 
said  they  were  fitted  to  take  a  permanent  place  in  the 
literature  of  the  country,  and  for  that  very  reason  were 
not  adapted  to  the  merely  academical  purposes  which  the 
lectures  of  the  professor  of  history  were  intended  to  sub- 
serve. They  may  not  now  be  as  much  read,  perhaps,  as 
his  delightful  ecclesiastical  biographies,  but  I  trust  they 
occupy  the  place  which  Dr.  "Whewell  assigned  to  them. 

Though  I  did  not  accept  Stephen's  office,  and  though  it 
was  filled  by  an  eminently  active  and  capable  man,  Mr. 
Herman  Merivale,  I  imagine  that,  for  some  time  at  least, 
my  official  work  must  have  been  nearly  as  heavy  as  if  I 
had  accepted  it.  Stephen's  illness -preceding  his  resigna- 
tion had  thrown  his  work  into  a  rapidly  accumulating 
arrear.  Herman  Merivale  did  not  enter  upon  his  duties 
immediately,  nor  when  entering  upon  them  could  any 
new  man  be  equal  to  them  at  an  early  moment,  so  that 

*  Caracteres,  c.  1 2. 

n.— 2 


26  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

the  pressure  brought  upon  me  for  a  time  was  severe.  And 
presently  something  crowded  in  from  another  quarter. 
I  wrote  to  my  father,  19th  October,  1847: 

"  Great  is  the  labor,  as  you  may  imagine,  of  stopping 
the  gap;  and  in  the  middle  of  it  what  should  happen  but 
that  Macready  the  actor  paid  me  a  visit  at  Mortlake,  to 
say  that  he  had  adapted  the  first  part  of  '  Van  Artevelde ' 
to  the  stage,  and  to  offer  me,  on  the  part  of  the  manager 
of  the  Princess's  Theatre,  £100  for  the  liberty  of  acting 
it  for  this  season.  I  have  not  yet  signified  my  consent, 
but  I  am  to  go  to-night  to  hear  Macready's  reading  of 
the  play  and  then  to  decide:  and  if  in  the  affii'mative,  the 
play  is  to  be  acted  in  a  month.  So  this  is  on  my  hands; 
and  my  essays  are  coming  out  at  Murray's,  and  my  verses 
at  Moxon's." 

The  consequence  of  all  this  was,  that  when  the  play 
was  acted  I  was  not  well  enough  to  go  to  the  theatre  till 
the  sixth  night,  which  was  the  last. 

I  thought  Macready  acted  his  part  admirably,  and  I 
did  not  find  so  much  fault  as  he  and  many  did  with  others 
of  the  performers;  and  whatever  might  be  his  own  feel- 
ing, so  long  as  the  audience  was  of  the  cultivated  class, 
the  play  seemed  to  persons  of  that  class  to  be  successful; 
but  of  course  the  literary  audiences  could  only  be  the 
few  ;  and  the  Press,  which  either  leads  or  follows  the 
many,  took  the  part  of  blaming  the  attempt  to  bring  on 
the  stage  a  work  wdiich  was  designed  only  for  the  library. 

In  Macready's  diaryj,  published  in  his  "lleminiscences," 
there  is  this  entry:  "  Nov.  22.  Production  of  '  Van  Arte- 
velde.' Attended  to  business,  did  my  best,  worked  my 
hardest.  Went  to  rehearsal.  Acted  Philip  Van  Arte- 
velde. Failed;  I  cannot  think  it  my  fault.  Called  for, 
of  course.  Forstcr,  Dickens,  Stanfickl,  Maclise,  Spring 
Rice,  and  his  brother,  came  into  my  room.    I  am  very  un- 


"  Van  Artevelde"  Acted.  27 

happy  ;  my  toil  and  life  is  thrown  away.  I  certainly 
labored  more  than  my  due  in  regard  to  the  whole  play, 
and  much  of  my  own  part  of  Van  Artevelde  I  acted  well; 
but  the  play  was  so  underacted  by  the  people  engaged  in 
it,  that  it  broke  down  under  their  weight."  Vol.  ii.,  p. 
292. 

My  opinion  (which  is  not  worth  much,  however)  was 
that  the  play  was  by  no  means  ill-suited  to  the  stage, 
though  I  should  not  have  hazarded  such  an  opinion  had  I 
not  seen  it  there.  Miss  Bremer,  the  Swedish  novelist, 
told  me  that  it  had  been  translated  into  Swedish  and 
brought  on  the  stage  with  great  success  at  Stockholm. 

I  hope  I  was  as  sorry  as  I  ought  to  have  been  for 
Macready's  disappointment;  and  I  must  have  been  a  good 
deal  disappointed  myself;  but  at  this  conjuncture  I  hard- 
ly had  time  to  think  much  of  anything  but  my  health  and 
my  work. 

Poetry,  however,  in  the  turbid  confluence  of  interests 
and  efforts,  still  kept  a  little  pool  apart  for  itself.  I 
wrote  to  Aubrey  de  Vere: 

"I  am  as  much  mobbed  just  now  as  if (this 

was  an  unmarried  elderly  lady)  had  risen  upon  me  as  one 
man.*     Murray,  Moxon,  Macready,  James  Stephens,  and 

*The  allusion  is  to  an  outbreak  of  temper  on  the  part  of  a  lady  who 
had  been  living  for  some  time  at  Curragh  Chase.  It  is  thus  described  in 
a  letter  from  Aubrey  de  Vere,  who  was  writing  from  the  midst  of  the 
mobs  and  riots  of  the  Irish  crisis  of  1847:  "As  I  have  no  other  disturb- 
ance to  tell  you  of,  I  must  tell  you  that rose  like  one  man  the 

other  day,  and  mobbed  the  whole  household.  "What  the  cause  was  none 
can  say.  She  broke  out  at  three  o'clock  on  Friday.  For  three  days  the 
servants  hid  themselves.  The  higher  orders  begged  her  pardon,  saying 
they  never  would  do  it  again ;  and  all  alike  had  to  remember  the  sins  of 
their  youth.  The  fourth  day  brought  a  deliverance.  The  mail  car  passes 
the  gate  at  one  o'clock  p.m.,  and  on  that  car  the  whole  insurrection 
drove  awav!" 


38  Autohiograj)hy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

Lord  Grey  give  me  enough  to  do.  Nevertheless  I  could 
take  delight  in  that  beautiful  stanza  you  appended  to 
your  last  letter.  ...  I  tried  to  write  a  second  stanza  by 
way  of  a  pretext  for  putting  it  into  my  volume,  but  I 
failed,  and  I  hardly  expect  to  have  time  to  try  again." 
I  did  try  again,  and  the  stanzas  were  these  : 


For  me  no  roseate  garlands  twine, 
But  wear  them,  dearest,  in  my  stead ; 

Time  has  a  whiter  hand  than  thine, 
And  lays  it  on  my  head. 


Enough  to  know  thy  place  on  earth 
Is  there  where  roses  latest  die ; 

To  know  the  steps  of  youth  and  mirth 
Are  thine,  that  pass  me  by." 


Chapter  IV. 

COLONIAL  OFFICE  IN  ARMS  TO  FIGHT  THE  CHARTISTS.— FIGHTS 
THE  PLANTERS  IN  COMMITTEE.— SIR  ROBERT  PEEL  STRONG 
IN  THE  STRENGTH  OF  EPHRAIM.— A  COMEDY  OF  ROMANCE 
FINISHED,  AND  ENTITLED  «  THE  VIRGIN  WIDOW." 

Anno  Dom.  1848-49.     Anno  ^t.  48-49. 

So  passed  the  year  1847,  and  the  revolutionary  year 
which  followed  placed  the  colonial  office  for  one  day  in 
circumstances  which  were  new  to  it. 

It  was  and  is  still  (in  1875),  though  it  will  soon  cease 
to  be,  a  commonplace  brick  house  at  the  end  of  Down- 
ing Street,  which  celebrated  street  consisted  till  lately  of 
houses  of  the  same  pattern ;  and  I  have  often  thought  that 
England  was  probably  the  only  country  in  Europe  which 
could  afford  that  its  secretaries  of  state  for  foreign  and 
colonial  affairs  should  receive  their  foreign  and  colonial 
visitors  in  houses  each  of  them  less  like  a  centre  of  state 
affairs  than  a  decent  lodging-house.  In  a  small  German 
principality  such  a  house  would  be  considered  too  mean 
for  a  porter's  lodge;  but  in  England  we  have  not  cared 
much  to  keep  up  appearances,  wearing  the  star  of  our  or- 
der within. 

On  the  10th  April,  1848,  the  dingy  old  brick  house  from 
which  orders  had  been  issued  daily  to  the  four  corners  of 
the  earth  was  called  upon  to  consider  itself  a  fortress,  and 
stand  on  its  defence  against  the  Chartists,  led  by  Feargus 
O'Connor.  Its  door  was  guarded  and  its  windows  blocked 
with  bags  of  sand,  and  carbines  were  issued  to  us  all.    The 


30  Aidobiograj^hy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

old  sergeant  who  superintended  the  issue  at  the  ordnance 
stores  slyly  obsei-ved,  "  Those  weapons  will  do  a  deal  of 
harm  to  somebody  before  the  day  is  over,"  and  certainly 
there  were  those  among  us  who  had  yet  to  learn  how  to 
make  use  of  the  firearm  put  into  our  suicidal  hands.  I 
have  known  a  sportsman  claim  superiority  as  a  marksman 
over  a  brother  in  the  army,  saying  that  a  soldier  "could 
not  hit  anything  smaller  than  a  man."  I  was  neither  sol- 
dier nor  sportsman,  and  had  never  had  a  gun  in  my  hands 
since  I  was  a  boy.  But  there  was  no  real  ground  for  be- 
lieving, nor  did  we  believe,  except  as  a  mere  possibility, 
that  we  should  have  to  fight.  I  reached  the  ofiice  early 
in  the  morning,  and  the  housemaid,  who  was  lighting  the 
fire,  asked  me  if  I  thought  the  Chartists  were  going  to 
kill  us.  I  gave  her  a  word  of  encouragement  borrowed 
from  Beatrice,  and  promised  to  eat  as  many  as  they  should 
kill — an  assurance  which  afforded  her  much  satisfaction. 
My  father-in-law  had  had  a  long  talk  with  the  Duke  of 
Wellington  that  morning.  Troops  were  posted  every- 
w^hei-e  out  of  sight,  but  everywhere  available.  The  duke 
said,  *'  Only  tell  me  where  they  are  and  I'll  stop  them  ;" 
and  his  old  eyes,  Lord  Monteagle  said,  sparkled  like  a 
girl's  at  her  first  ball. 

The  failure  of  the  Chartist  movement  was  signal  and 
complete.  And  it  was  avcII  for  us  and  our  carbines  that 
our  fighting  quality  was  not  tested.  While  we  were 
awaiting  the  issue  Frederick  Elliot  amused  us  with  an 
anecdote  of  amateur  fighting,  of  which  the  scene  was  in 
Syria,  where  some  of  our  troojjs  were  engaged  in  the  Avar- 
fare  with  Ibrahim  Pasha.  An  English  tourist,  Avho  had 
seized  the  opportunity  of  doing  some  amateur  fighting, 
was  exchanging  shot  after  shot  with  one  of  the  enemy, 
all  to  no  purpose,  when  a  sergeant  of  the  line  daAvdled 
up  to  him,  with,  "  La !  sir,  let  me  shoot  that  'ere  Turk  for 


Sir  JRobert  Peel  in  Committee.  81 

you,  he'll  be  a-killing  of  you;"  and,  taking  the  gun  out  of 
the  tourist's  hands,  he  shot  the  Turk  dead  at  once. 

Though  there  was  no  fighting  with  the  Chartists  to  be 
done  in  the  colonial  office  in  these  years,  they  did  not  pass 
over  without  abundant  pugnacities  of  the  pen,  especially 
in  my  division  of  business.  And  in  1849  we  had  to  fight 
the  West  Indian  merchants  and  planters  and  their  repre- 
sentatives in  a  committee  of  the  House  of  Commons.  I 
wrote  to  my  father  on  the  Yth  May:  "  I  have  not  for  many 
years  had  so  much  business  on  my  hands,  partly  owing  to 
the  state  of  West  Indian  affairs,  partly  to  factious  pro- 
ceedings in  the  House  of  Commons  connected  with  them. 
A  committee  of  that  house  has  been  sitting  to  inquire  into 
our  administration  of  the  affairs  of  British  Guiana,  and 
one  leading  person  in  the  West  Indian  interest,  when  asked 
by  the  committee  what  improvement  the  West  Indians 
would  propose  in  the  administration  of  colonial  affairs, 
said  they  objected  to  nie,  inasmuch  as  I  knew  very  little 
about  commerce  and  nothing  whatever  about  the  colonies. 
It  so  happened,  however,  that  I  had  been  for  years  advo- 
cating their  interests  and  views  on  every  one  of  the  sub- 
jects which  they  were  complaining  about  before  the  com- 
mittee. I  had  drawn  up  a  memorandum  on  them,  in  184G, 
in  this  sense,  and  this  memorandum  was  laid  before  the 
committee  by  the  under  secretary  of  state.  So  that  they 
will  find  that  they  have  been  accusing  me  of  ignorance  to 
their  own  detriment." 

I  attended  the  committee  frequently  to  hear  what 
was  going  on,  and  I  took  note  of  Sir  Robert  Peel,  who 
T/as  a  member  of  it.  There  he  sat,  day  after  day  and 
week  after  week,  profoundly  silent.  The  committee  was 
composed,  of  course,  of  men  of  opposite  opinions,  each 
of  which  was  to  be  duly  advocated.  Most  of  them 
had  no  such  knowledfre  of  the  matters  at  issue  as  could 


33  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

enable  them  even  to  put  pertinent  questions  to  the  wit- 
nesses. Sir  Robert  Peel  afforded  no  assistance.  Weary- 
hours  were  wasted  every  day  on  subjects  beside  the  pur- 
pose. Sir  Robert  Peel  looked  on  with  inexhaustible  pa- 
tience. The  evidence  came  to  an  end  at  last,  and  then 
one  member  or  another  moved  this  or  that  report,  and 
some  idle  and  much  ignorant  disputation  ensued.  Sir 
Robert  Peel  seemed  to  listen.  Nobody  was  convinced  by 
anybody  else,  nor  was  there  much  reason  why  they  should; 
and  the  contention  appearing  as  endless  as  it  was  unprofit- 
able, all  parties  became  utterly  tired  of  themselves  and 
each  other  and  the  whole  concern.  Then  rose  Sir  Robert, 
and  what  a  miracle  was  wrought  when  the  dumb  man 
spoke !  He  said  that  he  had  put  together  some  sentences 
which  he  thought  might  tend  to  reconcile  the  different 
views  entertained  in  the  committee,  and  ho  would  beg 
leave  to  read  the  draft  of  a  report  which  he  had  to  pro- 
pose. It  was  rather  a  long  paper,  giving  an  account  of 
the  constitution  of  British  Guiana  as  it  had  existed  under 
the  sovereignty  of  the  states -general  of  Holland  and  of 
the  political  changes  it  had  since  undergone,  and  it  wound 
up  with  two  or  three  vague  conciliatory  sentences,  not 
calculated  to  have  much  practical  effect  one  way  or  the 
other.  Not  the  slightest  opposition  was  offered,  and  Sir 
Robert's  report  was  adopted  without  the  change  of  a 
word.  To  me,  as  a  spectator,  this  course  of  things  seemed 
instructive.  I  thought  of  Sir  Robert,  and  I  thought  of 
Ephraim,  and  I  said  to  myself,  "  His  strength  was  in  sit- 
ting still." 

In  point  of  fact  the  report,  all  but  the  last  two  or  three 
sentences,  was  written  by  me;  and  my  object  was  to  ob- 
tain the  sanction  of  a  committee  of  the  House  of  Commons 
for  a  correct  definition  of  the  respective  constitutional 
powers  possessed  by  the  several  functionaries  exercising 


"  The  Virgin  Widow''''  Finished.  83 

political  rights  in  the  colony,  viz. :  1st,  the  Crown;  2d,  the 
Constituencies;  3d,  the  "Court  of  Reisers;"  4th,  the 
"Court  of  Policy;"  and  5th,  the  "Combined  Court"  or 
"  Court  of  Policy  and  Financial  Representatives."  This 
object  was  accomplished. 

Such  pressures  of  official  work  as  I  have  adverted  to  had 
become  frequent  since  the  retirement  of  the  Demiurge 
James  Stephen;  and  they  had  retarded  for  the  last  year 
or  two  the  progress  of  a  play  originally  entitled  "The 
Virgin  Widow,"  and  afterwards  "A  Sicilian  Summer" 
(begun  in  December,  1845),  by  which  I  hoped  to  revive 
the  Elizabethan  comedy  of  romance.  I  wrote  to  my  father 
early  in  1849: 

"  My  play  has  been  brought  to  a  stand  midway  the  fifth 
act,  business  having  pushed  it  aside  for  two  months  com- 
pletely. All  that  I  have  done  about  it  is  to  get  the  Gresh- 
am  professor  of  music  to  fish  up  some  good  old  music  to 
two  of  the  songs.     The  music  is  by  Henry  Lawes: 

"  '  Harry,  whose  tuneful  and  well-measured  song 
First  taught  our  English  music  how  to  span 
"Words  with  just  note  and  accent,  not  to  scan 
With  Midas'  ears  committing  short  and  long.' 

One  of  the  songs  is  exceedingly  well  matched  in  this  way, 
and  I  hope  to  get  good  music  by  hook  or  by  crook  for  the 
others  in  time." 

In  June  of  the  same  year,  however,  I  had  come  to  the 
'  end  of  the  play,  and  only  wanted  a  few  months  for  revi- 
sion and  improvement  before  I  should  publish  it.  "It 
makes  the  best  story ^^  I  said  to  my  father,  "  that  I  have 
written,  and  has,  in  the  main,  I  think,  the  merits  of  sweet- 
ness and  lightness.  But  it  is  not  a  comedy  of  smartness 
and  repartee,  nor  have  I  regarded  wit  as  the  one  thing 
needful.  Possibly  there  may  not  be  enough  of  it."  I  did 
nothing  in  the  way  of  revision  during  the  remaining  sum- 
II.— 2* 


34  Autobiograjphy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

mcr  months,  not  now  because  I  Avas  overworked,  but  be- 
cause I  was  *'  so  indolent  and  so  depressed  by  the  pestilen- 
tial atmosphei'e;"  for  this  was  one  of  the  years  in  which 
there  was  a  visitation  of  cholera.  In  October,  however,  I 
went  to  work,  and  in  December  Alice  announces  to  ray 
mother,  "  the  great  news  that  the  play  is  fairly  finished — 
was  finished  satisfactorily  to  us  both  yesterday  morning. 
It  is  to  be  sent  to  press,  I  believe,  forthwith;  so  you  will 
read  it  more  agreeably  than  in  the  present  very  bad  copy; 
but  I  wish  he  could  have  read  it  to  you  while  it  was  still 
a  child  of  the  house.  I  do  not  know  whether  you  saw 
Macready's  criticisms  and  suggestions,  but  they  were  most 
useful,  and  in  gratitude  Henry  has  dedicated  the  play  to 
him.  It  is,  as  you  know,  to  be  published  first  as  a  reading 
play  by  Longman.  Henry  would  like  it  to  be  acted  if  it 
will  act;  but,  besides  other  objections,  actors  are  scarce 
in  these  days,  and  Macready  (the  best  by  far)  is  leaving 
the  stage." 

The  play  did  not  make  much  way  with  the  world  at 
first;  and,  sharing  the  fortunes  of  "Isaac  Comnenus," 
"  Edwin  the  Fair,"  and  "  St.  Clement's  Eve,"  its  circulation 
from  first  to  last  has  been  little  more  than  half  that  of 
"  Van  Artevelde."  But  it  was  eminently  successful  with 
some  persons  whom  it  was  my  greatest  pleasure  to  please. 
I  remember  Charles  Young,  the  actor,  told  me  that  his 
habit  on  the  stage  was  to  single  out  some  one  of  the  audi- 
ence who  looked  especially  intelligent  and  interested  and 
act  to  him;  and  with  me  it  has  always  been  difticult  to 
make  much  account  of  the  mere  abstraction  we  call  "  the 
public,"  and  my  sense  of  success  and  my  enjoyment  of  it 
has  been  chielly  when  it  has  presented  itself  in  the  con- 
crete. I  wrote  to  Alice,  24th  November,  1858:  "Nina 
Minto  said  she  had  passed  the  summer  in  my  poetry,  and 
had  taken  the  greatest  pleasure  in  "The  Virgin  AVidow" 


"57id  Virgin  Widow. ^^  35 

— its  poetry,  its  characters,  its  songs,  all  delightful  to  her. 
I  told  her  it  was  a  consolation  to  me  to  hear  it,  as  the 
world  cared  nothing  about  "The  Virgin  Widow,"  and 
would  not  read  it,  though  it  had  always  seemed  to  me  the 
pleasantest  play  I  had  written,  and  I  never  could  tell  why 
people  would  not  be  pleased  with  it.  It  is  odd  that  the 
lines  she  fixed  upon  to  quote  were  not  mine."  The  lines  . 
alluded  to  occur  at  the  end  of  the  following  passage: 

"...  Now  for  earth 
And  earth-encumbered  ways.     Oh  !  wilderness 
Whose  undergrowths  and  overgrowths  conspire 
To  darken  and  entangle — here  a  mesh 
Of  petty,  prickly  hindrance — there  the  wreck 
Of  some  high  purpose  stricken  by  the  storm — 
What  wary  walking  shall  suffice  to  thrid 
Thy  thickets?     Happy  they  who  walk  by  faith, 
And  in  the  dark  by  things  unseen  upheld, 
Knowing  that  clouds  and  darkness  lead  to  light, 
Else  unapproachable,  and  knowing  too 
That  in  this  mortal  journeying  wasted  shade 
Is  worse  than  wasted  sunshine." 

Two  lines  in  Wordsworth's  poetry  which  are  perhaps  more 
frequently  quoted  than  any  others — 

"...  And  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude '' — 
were,  to  my  knowledge,  a  contribution  from  Wordsworth's 
wife;  and  the  above  lines  were  a  contribution  from  mine. 
I  have  said  in  one  of  my  essays  that  "  it  is  better  to  be 
read  ten  times  by  one  reader  than  once  by  ten,"  and  a 
few  years  ago,'when  an  accomplished  lady  sent  me  a  little 
plauditory  poem,  this  was  my  response: 

"Toll.  C. 
"It  may  be  folly — they  are  fiee 

Who  think  it  so,  to  laugh  or  blame, 
But  single  sympathies  to  me 
Are  more  than  fame. 


36  Autobiography  of  Ilennj  Tmjlor, 

"The  glen  and  not  the  mountain-top 
I  love,  and  tlio'  its  date  be  brief 
I  snatch  the  rose  you  send,  and  drop 
The  laurel  leaf." 


Chapter  V. 

FAMILY  PARTY  AT  TUNBRIDGE  WELLS.  —  SUPERFLUOUS  SER- 
VANTS AND  THEIR  WAYS.— MR.  AND  MRS.  CAMERON.— LORD 
AND  LADY  JOHN  RUSSELL, 

Anno  Dom.  1849.     Anno  ^t.  49. 

In  July  and  August  of  1849  there  bad  been  a  gathering 
at  Tunbridge  Wells  of  my  father  and  mother,  Miss  Fen- 
wick,  and  ourselves.  My  father  and  mother  were  in  their 
VVtb  and  79th  years,  and  my  father's  lifelong  semi-blind- 
ness was  now  in  a  way  to  be  something  worse;  but  they 
were  certainly  not  the  least  cheerful  of  the  party.  My 
mother's  health  had  never  been  of  the  comfortable  kind, 
but  I  doubt  if  it  was  much  worse  now  than  in  earlier 
years,  and  old  age  had  put  but  little  pressure  upon  the 
lightness  of  her  mind.  "  We  have  no  reason  to  complain," 
an  old  friend  said  to  her,  "  at  seventy-seven  years  of  age, 
for  we  both  walk  about  as  stoutly  as  the  young  ones." 
"  Yes,  Maria,"  she  answered,  "  but  they  say  that  ghosts 
walk."  It  was  not  quite  so  with  Miss  Fen  wick.  She  had 
joined  us  at  Mortlake  in  the  beginning  of  July,  and  the 
way  in  which  she  had  written  of  her  coming  visit  had  in- 
dicated some  increase  of  the  constitutional  depression  of 
spirits  to  which  she  had  always  been  subject;  and  I  think 
there  had  been  circumstantial  as  well  as  constitutional  de- 
pression just  at  that  time.  The  cloud  which  had  come 
over  Wordsworth  since  his  daughter's  death,  two  years 
before,  had  probably  darkened  the  days  to  her;  for  the 
Wordsworths  were  with  her  at  Great  Malvern,  whence 
she  wrote;  and  moreover  she  had  felt  some  anxiety  about 


38  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

Alice's  health,  though  from  this  she  was  now  in  a  great 
measure  relieved.  "Now,  I  trust,  all  will  go  on  well," 
she  says;  and  adds,  "  it  is  not  quite  as  unreasonable  to  say 
to  our  friends,  '  Be  quiet,'  as,  '  Be  happy  ;'  therefore  I 
venture  on  this  recommendation,  though  it  may  be  diffi- 
cult enough  to  observe.  Next  to  being  quiet,  to  be  dull 
may  be  the  best  thing;  and  I  think  I  may  bo  able  to  help 
you  to  tliat,  and  without  any  particular  effort  on  my  part; 
so  after  next  Saturday  I  shall  be  on  my  way  to  you." 
She  used  to  maintain  that  even  without  any  special  reason 
for  seeking  repose  at  one  time  or  another,  a  certain  por- 
tion of  dulness  was  a  wholesome  element  in  every  life; 
and  that  may  be  true  doctrine:  and  she  said  also,  but  this 
was  rather  far  from  the  truth,  that  she  was  "  a  great  pro- 
moter of  it."  Sadness  and  disturbance  did  in  reality  come 
to  her  often,  but  dulness  never.  At  Tunbridge  Wells,  if 
she  was  not  quite  so  cheerful  as  some  of  us,  she  was  very 
loving  and  only  occasionally  oppressed.  This  was  the 
last  time  when  all  five  of  us  came  together,  and  there  were 
our  two  children  to  enliven  the  meeting;  and  whatever 
may  have  been  the  physical  drawbacks,  I  trust  she  shared 
largely  in  the  happiness  of  the  time.  To  my  father  and 
mother  I  think  it  was  a  happiness  without  interruption  and 
without  alloy.  My  wife's  love  for  them  both  had  deep- 
ened with  every  year  of  the  ten  which  had  elapsed  since 
our  marriage,  and  theirs  for  her  was  ardent  now  for  her 
own  sake  as  well  as  for  mine.  A  quarter  of  a  century  has 
passed;  I  am  nearly  as  old  now  as  they  were  then  ;  but 
I  can  scarcely  read  some  of  her  letters  to  them  without  the 
feelings  with  which  I  know  that  they  must  have  been 
received.     Southey  has  said — 

"  The  soinxe  from  which  wc  weep 
Too  near  the  surface  lies  in  youth, 
In  age  it  lies  too  deep — " 


Tears.  89 

But  I  think  that  is  not  true.  Tears  come  more  easily  to 
old  than  to  young  eyes,  unless  childhood  is  to  be  included 
in  youth.  What  I  should  imagine  to  be  true  is,  that  in 
age  tears  come  at  a  less  urgent  call  than  in  youth  and 
manhood,  and  that  with  the  less  urgent  call  there  is  less 
energy  of  grief,  but  also  less  energy  of  other  emotions  to 
supplant : 

"Tistrne 
The  sharpness  of  our  pangs  is  less  in  age, 
As  sounds  are  muffled  by  the  fulling  snow ; 
But  true  no  less  that  what  age  faintly  feels 
It  flings  not  off" — 

says  Wulfstan  the  Wise.  Tears  came  easily  to  my  father's 
eyes  in  old  age,  but  they  were  more  often  tears  of  ten- 
derness than  tears  of  grief;  for  his  gi-eatest  sorrows  had 
been  suffered  in  earlier  life,  and  when  they  came  back 
to  him  it  was  out  of  the  long  past  and  through  the  falling 
snow.  His  happiness  in  me  was  more  unmixed  now  than 
in  any  former  years,  and  his  happiness  in  Alice  and  his 
grandchildren  had  accrued  and  gone  on  increasing  in  his 
old  age;  and  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  in  1849,  with  his  health, 
which  was  so  soon  to  break  up,  only  a  little  shaken  yet,  I 
think  his  happiness  in  us  was  at  its  summit;  and  when  we 
dispersed  to  our  several  destinations  we  all  looked  back 
on  the  weeks  we  had  spent  there  as  a  sort  of  festival  of 
the  affections. 

Alice,  writing  to  my  mother  in  the  December  following 
a  minute  account  of  the  children  and  their  ways,  concludes 
with  a  glance  at  the  summer  foregone:  "And  now  have 
I  told  you  enough  of  your  firstborn  grandchild;  and  when 
shall  you  see  him  again  to  verify  a  mother's  statement  ? 
Whenever  and  wherever  it  may  be  it  can  scarcely  be  a 
pleasanter  meeting  than  our  last;  nor  have  I  felt  or  seen 
since  we  parted   any  kindness  so  loving  as  yours  was 


40  Autobiography  of  Ilenry  Taylor. 

to  mc  at  Tunbridge  Wells,  my  o-o-n  dear  old  tender 
motlier." 

I  was  the  first  to  quit  Tunbridge  "Wells,  for  my  holidays 
had  come  to  an  end;  and,  leaving  my  wife  and  children,  I 
took  up  my  abode  alone  for  a  time  in  a  large  house  in 
South  Street,  belonging  to  my  wife's  brother-in-law,  but 
not  occupied  by  him  at  the  moment.  "  The  house  is  as  full 
and  noisy  as  an  inn;  eleven  servants  (of  whom  five  are 
nurses  or  nursery-maids),  all  running  over  each  other  in 
their  haste  to  do  nothing;  and  less  comfort  in  attendance 
than  we  had  with  five.  I  do  not  know  how  I  shall  get  any- 
thing done  in  South  Street,  for  I  have  a  butler,  a  page,  and 
two  maids  there." 

I  was  busy  with  the  last  act  of  "  The  Virgin  Widow," 
and  I  rather  think  the  state  of  things  I  witnessed  gave 
me  a  hint  for  the  fifth  scene: 

"  Steward.  Call  you  this  a  Hall  of  Audience  ?  Why,  it  is  a  ship's 
cabin  in  a  gale  of  wind.  Here,  TroUo,  move  this  table  to  the  wall  and  set 
the  throne  upon  its  legs.  Where  is  Grossi  ?  Be  tender  with  it,  for  the 
three  legs  that  are  old  have  the  dry-rot  and  the  one  that  is  new  hath  a 
warp.     Is  Grossi  here  ? 

Under  Steward.     No,  sir,  he  is  ill  of  a  surfeit. 

Steward.     I  thought  so  ;  a  walk  betwixt  bed  and  board  is  the  best 
of  his  day's  work.     Where  is  Tornado  ? 

Under  Steward.     He  hath  a  quarrel  with  Secco,  and  will  not  come 
in  the  same  room  with  him. 

Steward.     The  cause?  the  cause  ? 

Under  Steward.     Nay,  sir,  I  know  not  that. 

Steward.     Then  I  will  tell  you,  sir  ;  short  work's  the  cause  ; 
Short  work  it  is  fills  palaces  with  strife. 
Nothing-to-do  was  Master  Squabble's  mother, 
And  Much-ado  his  child." 
I  think  that  the  reform  which  many  of  our  English  house- 
holds require  may  be  summed  up  in  fewer  servants,  higher 
wages,  and  more  work. 

At  Tunbridge  Wells  was  the  beginning  of  a  friendship 


M7's.  Cameron.  41 

which,  though  the  upstart  of  a  day,  has  not  been  as  short- 
lived as  friendships  so  up-springing  are  wont  to  be,  for  it 
has  now  (in  18'75)  lasted  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  cen- 
tury. 

"Do  you  recollect,"  I  wrote  to  my  father,  19th  Sep- 
tember, 1849,  "Mrs.  Cameron,  who  was  our  neighbor  on 
Ephraim  Common?" 

And  before  I  proceed  with  the  letter  it  may  be  well  to 
say  something  about  the  lady.  She  was  the  wife  of 
Charles  Hay  Cameron,  a  Benthamite  jurist  and  philoso- 
pher of  great  learning  and  ability,  with  whom  I  had  been 
slightly  acquainted  in  our  youth.  He  had  since  filled  high 
offices  and  rendered  important  services  in  the  East,  ending 
in  the  place  previously  filled  by  Lord  Macaulay,  of  fourth 
member  of  council  at  Calcutta.  His  wife  was  the  daugh- 
ter of  an  Indian  civil  servant,  also  in  high  office,  and  they 
had  met  at  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope,  whither  each  had  been 
sent  for  recovery  of  health.  If  her  husband  was  of  a  high 
intellectual  order,  and  as  such  fell  naturally  to  her  lot,  the 
friends  that  fell  to  her  were  not  less  so.  Foremost  of 
them  all  were  Sir  John  Herschel  and  Lord  Hardinge, 
Math  both  of  whom  the  friendships  she  had  formed  (with 
the  one  at  the  Cape,  with  the  other  in  India)  were  ardent 
and  lifelong.  And  Sir  Edward  Ryan,  who  had  been  the 
early  friend  of  her  husband,  was  not  less  devoted  to  her 
in  the  last  days  of  his  long  life  than  he  had  been  from  the 
times  in  which  they  first  met. 

She  had  been  educated  at  home;  but  her  life  having 
been  passed  since  her  early  girlhood  almost  entirely  in 
India,  where  she  had  been  latterly,  in  the  absence  of  the 
governor  -  general's  wife,  at  the  head  of  the  European 
society,  she  made  small  account  of  the  ways  of  the  world 
in  England;  and  perhaps  had  she  been  less  accustomed  to 
rule,  she  would  still  have  been  by  no  means  a  servile  fol- 


42  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

lower  of  our  social  "  i^se  and  wont."  For,  without  arrogat- 
ing any  lawless  freedom,  perhaps,  indeed,  unconsciously, 
it  belonged  to  her  nature  to  be,  in  non-essentials,  a  law 
unto  itself. 

"  Do  you  recollect "  (I  proceed  with  the  letter)  "  Mrs. 
Cameron,  who  was  our  neighbor  on  Ephraim  Common? 
She  appeared  to  us  to  be  a  simple,  ardent,  and  honest  en- 
thusiast, and  her  husband  a  simple,  manly,  kind,  agreea- 
ble, and  very  able  man  ;  and  she  seems  a  very  much-in- 
dulged and  yet  a  very  devoted  wife." 

Some  months  later  I  wrote:  "Does  Alice  ever  tell  you, 
or  do  I,  of  how  we  go  on  with  Mrs.  Cameron,  whom  you 
saw  the  beginning  of  at  Tunbridge  Wells?  how  she  keeps 
showering  upon  us  her  '  barbaric  pearls  and  gold ' — In- 
dia shawls,  turquoise  bracelets,  inlaid  portfolios,  ivory 
elephants,  etc. — and  how  she  writes  us  letters  of  six  sheets 
long  all  about  ourselves,  thinking  that  we  can  never  be 
sufficiently  sensible  of  the  magnitude  and  enormity  of  our 
virtues?  And,  for  our  part,  I  think  that  we  do  not  find 
flattery,  at  least  this  kind  (for  hers  is  sincere),  to  be  so 
disagreeable  as  people  say  it  is  ;  and  we  like  her  and  grow 
fond  of  her." 

It  was,  indeed,  impossible  that  we  should  not  grow 
fond  of  her  —  impossible  for  us,  and  not  less  so  for  the 
many  whom  her  genial,  ardent,  and  generous  nature  has 
captivated  since.  In  the  early  days  of  the  friendship, 
upon  some  question  arising,  I  forget  what,  Mrs.  Cameron 
said  to  Alice  of  mo,  "  When  I  know  him  better,  ..." 
and  Alice  broke  in — "But  you  never  will  know  him  bet- 
ter ;  when  you  know  him  more  you  will  know  him  worse." 
It  was  said  lightly;  but  had  she  said  it  seriously,  she 
would  not  have  been  far  wrong.  For  among  the  many 
golden  fruits  of  friendship  that  grew  upon  this  tree  there 
was  one  that  was  not  golden — one  by  which  I  was  impov- 


Charles  Cameron.  43 

erished  and  not  enriched.  I  suffered  the  consequences, 
ordinar}',  whether  in  age  or  in  childhood,  of  being  too 
much  indulged.  Within  the  sphere  in  which  the  over- 
indulgence operated  I  came  to  be  often  more  wanting 
in  consideration  for  others  than  I  think  it  was  my 
way  to  be  when  unspoiled.  I  was  unconscious  of  it  at 
the  time ;  it  was  masked  from  me  ;  but,  looking  back 
when  the  masquerade  of  life  is  over,  I  see  it  plainly 
enough. 

-  This  friendship,  like  all  other  friendships,  was,  of  course, 
to  have  its  trials  and  vicissitudes.  But  with  whatever 
flights  and  falls,  and  in  the  course  of  time  natural  changes 
of  tone  and  complexion,  it  has  survived,  as  I  have  said, 
for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  and  is  now  a  good,  sound,  solid, 
and  very  genuine  friendship  in  the  first  degree. 

In  the  very  month  in  which  I  am  writing  (October, 
1875)  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cameron  have  taken  their  departure 
for  Ceylon,  there  to  live  and  die.  He  had  bought  an  es- 
tate there  some  thirty  yeai's  ago,  when  he  was  serving  the 
crown  there  and  elsewhere  in  the  East,  and  he  had  a  pas- 
sionate love  for  the  island,  to  which  he  had  rendered  an 
important  service  in  providing  it  with  a  code  of  proced- 
ure. The  Duke  of  Newcastle,  when  secretary  of  state 
about  ten  or  twelve  years  ago,  asked  me  whether  I  thought 
it  would  be  desirable  that  he  should  offer  him  the  gov- 
ernment. His  friends  were  consulted.  He  was  then,  I 
think,  about  seventy  years  of  age,  and  the  conclusion  ar- 
rived at  was  that  his  health  was  unequal  to  such  a  charge. 
But  he  never  ceased  to  yearn  after  the  island  as  his  place 
of  abode,  and  thither,  in  his  eighty-first  year,  has  he  be- 
taken himself  with  a  strange  joy.  The  design  was  kept 
secret — I  believe  even  from  their  nearest  relatives — prob- 
ably to  avoid  discussion  and  expostulation,  till  their  places 
had  been  taken  in  the  packet.     I  sent  him  a  farewell  let- 


44  Autobiograjp/iy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

tcr,  and  I  receivetl  a  touching  ans^yer,  written  at  South-  . 
ampton,  on  the  eve  of  embarkation: 

"  In  the  whirlwind  which  attended  my  departure  from 
Freshwater  your  letter  was  mislaid,  and  as  my  memory  is 
gone  except  what  Madame  de  Stiiel  called  '  la  racraoire  du 
cceur,'  I  only  know  that  it  was  very  kind,  and  indicative 
of  old  and  uninterrupted  friendship,  which  I  now  thank- 
fully acknowledge  and  reciprocate.  I  have  long  contem- 
plated Ceylon  as  my  final  resting-place,  and  fixed  on  the 
site  of  my  tomb.  The  site,  I  believe,  has  passed  out  of 
my  possession ;  but  my  intention  may  still  be  accom- 
plished cy-jyrts,  as  the  lawyers  express  it.  Give  my  best 
love  to  Alice  and  your  daughters. 

"  Your  old  and  faithful  friend,     C.  II.  Cameron." 

In  this  year  I  once  more,  but  I  think  once  only,  put  my 
head  out  into  society  in  London,  and  Alice  took  a  favora- 
ble view  of  my  qualifications  for  it  in  everything  except 
health : 

"  The  night  before  last  he  went  to  a  party  at  Lord  John 
Russell's,  which  he  enjoyed  wonderfully,  as  he  said  he  felt 
as  if  people  had  forgotten  how  unpopular  he  had  been, 
and  were  all  disposed  to  say,  'Hail,  fellow,  well  met'  to 
him;  and,  indeed,  I  think  (and  who  can  know  him  so  well 
as  I  do)  that  he  has  only  to  make  himself  known  now  to 
be,  at  least,  as  popular  as  he  ever  was  the  contrary.  But 
the  fact  is,  society  (whether  we  like  it  or  not)  would 
never  do  for  either  of  us.  It  takes  far  too  much  out  of 
all  but  the  very  strong,  and  very  strong  we  neither  of  us 
shall  ever  be." 

And  now  I  think  my  forty-ninth  year  is  disposed  of. 
On  the  19th  October  I  wrote  to  my  mother:  "So  begins 
my  fiftieth  year,  and,  having  my  father  'and  you  still 


My  Fiftieth  Year.  45 

with  me,  I  hardly  seem  to  be  aware  that  I  have  entered 
upon  the  decline  of  life,  or  to  discern  any  lessening  of  the 
light;  and,  indeed,  I  felt  more  in  the  valley  of  the  shadow 
in  my  fortieth  year  than  now  in  my  fiftieth,  advancing 
health  having  told  upon  me  more  than  advancing  years. 
So  far,  well." 


Chapter  VI. 

MORE    OF   MRS.    CAMERON.  —  WORDSWORTH'S    LAST    DAYS. — 
DEATH  AND  BIOGRAPHY.— TENNYSON'S  "IN  MEMORIAM." 

Anno  Dom.  1850.     Anno  iEx.  50. 

The  first  event  of  the  year  1850  was  the  birth,  in  Feb- 
ruary, of  a  second  daughter;  and  with  this  Mrs.  Cameron 
reappears,  full,  as  before,  of  love  and  service. 

"  There  is  a  wonderful  energy  and  efiiciency  in  her,"  I 
wrote;  and,  after  describing  what  she  had  done  for  Alice, 
I  proceed: 

"  The  transference  of  her  personal  effects  is  going  on 
day  after  day,  and  I  think  that  shortly  Cameron  will  find 
himself  left  with  nothing  but  his  real  property.  One  of 
the  last  presents  was  a  very  costly  Indian  shawl,  and  yes- 
terday came  a  drawing  from  my  bust,  splendidly  mount- 
ed, w^hich  she  is  about  to  have  lithographed.  She  has  set 
Dr.  Heimann  to  work  to  complete  his  translation  of  '  Van 
Artevelde.'  In  short,  she  is  a  peculiar  person,  zealous  of 
good  works." 

The  Indian  shawl  mentioned  in  this  letter,  though  ac- 
cepted at  the  moment  (under  a  threat,  if  I  recollect  right, 
that  else  it  would  be  there  and  then  thrown  into  the  fire), 
was  returned  shortly  after,  and  we  heard  no  more  about 
it.  But  in  the  course  of  time  Alice  had  occasion  to  pay 
a  visit  to  the  Hospital  for  Incurables  at  Putney,  and  was 
astonished  to  see,  on  a  very  expensive  piece  of  mechanism, 
in  the  shape  of  a  sofa,  constructed  for  the  use  of  a  certain 
class  of  patients,  her  own  name  inscribed  as  the  donor. 


The  Camerons.  ^'^ 

On  inquii-y,  it  proved  to  have  been  presented  by  Mrs. 
Cameron  as  if  on  Alice's  behalf,  and  we  found  that  it  rep- 
resented proceeds  realized  by  the  sale  of  the  returned 
shawl. 

Alice  writes:  "The  Camerons  are  coming  down  to  live 
near  us.  They  have  taken  a  house  near  the  Park.  I  am 
glad  of  it.  I  have  quite  made  up  my  mind  about  her  and 
like  her  very  much.  She  is  a  fine,  generous  creature, 
with  many  virtues  and  talents;  but  her  great  gift  is  that 
of  loving  others  and  forgetting  herself."  And  in  July  I 
took  up  the  word:  "The  Camerons  have  grown  to  be  a 
great  deal  to  us  in  our  daily  life — more  than  one  would 
have  thought  possible  in  the  course  of  a  year's  intercourse 
arising  out  of  an  accidental  meeting.  Mrs.  Cameron  has 
driven  herself  home  to  us  by  a  power  of  loving  which  I 
have  never  seen  exceeded,  and  an  equal  determination  to 
be  beloved.  On  meeting  with  some  difficulty  last  winter 
she  told  Alice  that  before  the  year  was  over  she  would 
love  her  like  a  sister.  She  pursued  her  object  through 
many  trials,  wholly  regardless  of  the  world's  ways,  put- 
ting pride  out  of  the  question;  and  what  she  said  has 
come  to  pass,  and  more;  we  all  love  her,  Alice,  I,  Aubrey 
de  Vere,  Lady  Monteagle — and  even  Lord  Monteagle,  who 
likes  eccentricity  in  no  other  form,  likes  her."  In  no  long 
time  Miss  Fenwick  was  added  to  the  number  of  her  con- 
quests. 

And  Miss  Fenwick  may  have  stood  in  need  of  a  new 
friend,  for  she  was  about  to  suffer  the  loss  of  an  old  one. 
Wordsworth,  for  want,  perhaps,  of  habits  of  occupation  in 
other  ways,  had  continued  the  exercise  of  his  poetic  fac- 
ulty beyond  the  age  at  which  it  is  often  desirable  either 
for  a  poet  or  for  his  fame  that  it  should  still  strive  to  be 
active  and  productive.  But  at  his  daughter's  death  a 
silence  as  of  death  fell  upon  him,  and  though  during  the 


48  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

interval  between  her  death  and  liis  own  his  genius  was 
not  at  all  times  incapable  of  its  old  animation,  I  believe 
it  never  again  broke  into  song.  Miss  Fenwick  writes, 
in  June,  1849:  "I  see  no  difference  in  Mrs.  Wordsworth, 
but  his  darker  moods  are  more  frequent,  though  at  other 
times  he  is  as  strong  and  as  bright  as  ever.  .  .  .  Ilis  is  a 
strong  but  not  a  happy  old  age." 

Ilis  life  lasted  for  less  than  a  year  from  the  date  of  this 
letter,  and  on  the  2oth  April,  1850,  she  writes:  "This 
post  has  brought  me  the  tidings  of  the  death  of  Mr. 
"Wordsworth,  .  .  .  with  as  little  suffering  as  can  attend 
this  last  circumstance  of  our  being,  and  he  seemed  sensi- 
ble to  the  last.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Wordsworth  bears  up  as  we 
would  expect  of  her.  She  will  take  to  the  thoughts  that 
liave  comfort  in  them,  as  well  she  may,  for  she  has  done  all 
things  well  through  life.  I  take  to  comforting  thoughts, 
too,  about  him  and  her.  lie  did  the  work  he  had  to  do 
in  this  world  nobly.  His  last  years  were  given  for  the 
good  of  his  own  soul.  I  am  anxious  to  be  with  my  be- 
loved Mrs.  Wordsworth." 

My  answer  is  dated  the  26th  April:  "We  had  heard  of 
the  event  and  you  were  much  in  our  thoughts.  No  man 
could  die  less  than  he,  so  much  of  his  mind  remaining 
\\\)Qxv  earth;  and  the  happiness  that  remained  to  him  in 
life  had  run  low;  so  that  he  seemed  to  have  lived  as  long 
as  we  could  desire  that  he  should  live,  so  far  as  regards 
any  ends  and  pur])oses  that  are  within  our  cognizance. 
But  it  is  a  great  and  sad  event,  and  that  one  cannot  but 
feel.  He  was  the  greatest  of  the  two  great  men  that  re- 
mained to  us,  and  I  believe  the  old  duke  is  the  same  age." 

Following  on  the  death  of  Wordsworth  came  the  ques- 
tion  how  and  by  whom  his  life  should  be  Avrittcn.  What 
1  had  to  say  Avas  said  in  a  letter  to  Miss  Fenwick  of  the 
24th  May,  1850:  "Unless  I  had  before  me  the  materials 


Wordsworth'' s  Biography.  49 

that  may  exist  for  a  life  of  Mr.  "Worclswortli  I  should  be 
rather  afraid  of  giving  an  opinion,  and  I  should  not  feel 
that  the  opinion  was  good  for  much.  I  suppose  the  let- 
ters arc  not  many  in  proportion  to  the  period  covered,  not 
long,  nor  abounding  much  in  personal  interest,  and  that 
the  best  and  greatest  part  of  his  mind  was  put  into  his 
poems.  And  if  the  biography  is  to  be  given  by  mere  nar- 
ration, it  would  seem  presumable  that  a  very  brief  biog- 
raphy would  be  the  best,  for  I  suppose  that  the  facts  are 
few.  But  of  this  Mrs.  Wordsworth  and  Dr.  Wordsworth 
and  yourself  must  have  far  better  means  of  judging 
than  I  or  anybody  else.  One  thing  I  conceive  will  have 
occurred  to  you — that  there  is  no  choice  between  a  very 
brief  biography  and  a  very  explicit  one;  and  that  a  biog- 
raphy which  should  be  explicit  as  to  mere  fact  would  lead 
to  much  misconstruction ;  and  that  much  explanation 
would  do  nothing  with  the  world  at  large  to  clear  up  the 
questions  that  would  arise.  For  a  composite  character 
will  always  be  inscrutable  to  the  many,  very  often  even 
to  the  few." 

Miss  Fenwick  replied  (Rydal  Mount,  3d  June,  1850)  : 
"  From  the  very  first  I  had  given  the  opinion,  which  it  was 
a  satisfaction  to  find  was  yours  too,  on  the  proposed  biog- 
raphy. This  is  dear  Mrs.  Wordsworth's  also,  and  we  both 
drew  it  from  the  same  source.  She  Avishes  me  much  to  be 
here  for  a  while  with  Dr.  Wordsworth.  Indeed,  in  a  paper 
signed  by  Mr.  AVordsworth,  he  refers  him  to  me  as  one 
who  could  give  him  information  and  who  knew  him  well. 
This  gives  me  more  claim  to  have  my  opinion  considered 
than  otherwise  I  could  have  expected,  in  case  Dr.  Words- 
worth has  taken  a  different  view  of  the  hind  of  biography 
which  should  be  written." 

She  stayed  at  Rydal  Mount  till  Dr.  Wordsworth  came, 
and,  after  much  preliminary  discussion,  went  to  pay  a  visit 

II.— 3 


50  Autobiography  of  IJcnry  Taylor. 

to  her  niece  in  Norlhuinbcrland,  promising,  liowever,  at 
his  earnest  request  and  that  of  Mrs.  Wordsworth,  to  return 
shortly  and  remain  for  a  fortniglit  or  three  weeks,  wlien 
she  conceived  that  the  plan  of  the  biography  would  have 
been  formed. 

Dr.  AVordsworth  gave  his  time  and  attention  most  as- 
siduously to  the  task  assigned  to  him.  He  had  accepted 
it,  JNIiss  Fenwick  said,  "  without  much  knowledge  of  his 
uncle,  or,  indeed,  of  his  poetry,  and  he  had  had  all  this 
to  get  up;"  but,  she  added,  "he  is  a  very  able  man  and 
good,"  and,  she  trusted,  that  "  on  the  Avhole,  he  might  ex- 
ecute the  work  satisfactorily." 

The  biography  produced  Avas  very  far  from  being  the 
brief  one  contemplated  by  Mrs.  AVordsworth  and  Miss 
FenM'ick,  and,  as  I  understood,  by  Mr,  Wordsworth  him- 
self. Of  what  led  to  the  different  scale  I  have  no  knowl- 
edge; but  I  think  the  adoption  of  it  was  regretted  by  many 
of  those  who  Avere  most  interested  in  Wordsworth  and  his 
works. 

Miss  Fenwick  writes  :  "  I  dare  say  we  should  think 
much  alike  of  the  memoir.  It  was  w^'itten  in  far  too  great 
a  hurry.  The  original  idea  of  it  was  good;  but  time  was 
wanting  to  select  his  materials  and  condense.  A  few 
years  hence  a  better  life  may  be  Avritten."  For  my  own 
part,  I  think  the  life  is  rather  buried  in  the  biography 
than  brought  to  light  in  it. 

Next  came  the  question  of  a  monument,  and  on  this  too 
my  views  and  those  of  Miss  Fenwick  were  in  accord. 

"  Though  one  would  have  been  sorry,"  she  writes,  "  had 
there  been  no  demonstration  of  a  public  feeling,  yet,  when 
I  think  of  a  monument  in  Westminster  Abbey,  and  know 
his  feeling  and  opinion  of  such  things,  I  do  dislike  the  idea 
with  all  my  disliking  feelings.  I  never  heard  him  ap- 
prove much  of  any  memorial  excepting  for  statesmen  and 


Wordswort/i' s  Monument.  51 

warriors.  .  .  .  Yesterday  evening  I  visited  his  grave  in 
Grasmere  Churehyard,  as  yet  even  without  a  headstone. 
Who  that  has  visited,  or  ever  shall  visit,  his  grave  in  the 
churchyard  among  the  mountains  would  wish  for  any 
monument?" 

A  committee  was  appointed,  however,  and  a  sum  ex- 
ceeding £2000  seems  to  have  been  subscribed.  I  was 
put  upon  the  committee,  but  I  have  no  recollection  of 
having  taken  a  part  in  its  proceedings.  I  wrote  to  Miss 
Fenwick,  1st  July,  1850  :  "  I  do  not  think  that  I  can  do 
any  good  in  the  committee.  Of  course,  a  great  poet's 
works  are  his  monument,  and  every  other  must  be  as  a 
molehill  beside  a  pyramid.  If  there  were  some  great 
sculptor  living  whose  genius  lacked  an  opportunity  and  a 
subject,  a  monument  to  Mr.  Wordsworth  might  furnish 
one;  but  I  know  of  no  such  person,  and  the  bust  of  Mr. 
Southey  put  up  in  Westminster  Abbey  by  the  committee 
of  which  I  was  a  member  (the  worst,  I  think,  of  the  many 
bad  likenesses  of  him),  has  given  me  a  gi'cat  disinclination 
to  hazarding  such  things.  What  I  should  like  would  be 
simply  to  have  a  copy  in  marble  of  Chantrey's  bust  put 
up  in  Westminstoi-  Abbey,  and  another  in  Grasmere 
Church.  What  you  say  to  Alice  makes  me  think  that  this 
might  probably  be  your  feeling  and  that  of  Mrs.  Words- 
worth." 

A  statue  and  a  bust  Avere  eventually  produced ;  the 
former,  I  think,  bad,  the  latter  (by  Mr.  Thrupp)  very  good 
as  originally  moulded,  from  a  mask,  but  sadly  smoothed 
away  into  nothingness  at  the  instance  of  some  country 
neighbor  of  Wordsworth's,  whose  notions  of  refinement 
could  not  be  satisfied  without  the  obliteration  of  every- 
thing that  was  characteristic  and  true.  The  sculptor  had 
never  seen  Wordsworth,  and  may  be  excused  for  his  undue 
deference  to  the  opinions  of  one  who  had  been  familiar 


53  AiUohiogi'ajyhy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

witli  tlic  face.  But  it  was  a  lamentable  defeat.  Some 
casts  were  taken  from  the  unsophisticated  mould — one,  at 
least,  which  I  possess,  and  I  think  more.  It  is  adinirahlo 
as  a  likeness,  in  my  opinion,  and,  to  my  knowledge,  in  that 
of  Mrs.  Wordsworth;  and  there  is  a  rough  grandeur  in  it, 
with  which,  if  it  were  to  be  converted  into  marble,  poster- 
ity might  be  content. 

In  the  time  of  life  Avhicli  I  had  now  reached,  it  is  in  the 
course  of  nature  that  the  friends  and  relatives  of  the  gen- 
eration preceding  one's  own  should  begin  to  drop  off,  and 
Wordsworth's  death  was  followed  by  that  of  others  in 
rather  rapid  succession.  For  me,  therefore,  a  series  of 
funereal  poems  was  not  ill-timed,  and  it  was  in  these  days, 

"When  tlic  long  funerals  blackened  all  the  way," 

that  Tennyson's  "In  Memoriam  "  came  forth  to  the  world. 
Those  who  mourned  the  loss  of  Wordsworth  might  have 
been  reconciled  by  these  poems,  if  by  any,  to  the  trans- 
ference which  took  place  of  pre-eminence  in  popular  es- 
timation as  a  poet  from  him  to  Tennyson.  Poimlarity, 
indeed,  is  scarcely  the  word  to  designate  the  species  of 
celebrity  w^hich  Wordsworth  had  achieved.  It  is  what  he 
himself  would  have  distinctly  disclaimed.  lie  had  been 
accustomed  to  regard  it  as  derogating  from  a  poet's  title 
to  greatness.  During  the  thirty  years,  more  or  less,  for 
which  his  poetry  was  little  read,  this  was  no  doubt  a  con- 
solatory creed;  and  when  it  came  to  be  much  read,  he 
would  still  refuse  to  admit  that  it  was  popular.  When  I 
adverted  to  the  large  circulation  of  his  works:  "No,"  he 
said,  "a  steady,  moderate  sale;"  and  there  was  this  much 
of  truth  in  it — that  to  the  reading  populace  his  poetry 
never  did  reach  and  probably  never  will.  For  my  own 
part,  I  see  no  reason  why  contemporaneous  popularity 
should  argue  eventual  evanescence,  when  the  poetic  ele- 


^'- In  Memoriamy  53 

menls  are  various,  some  commending  themselves  to  the 
shallower  mind,  some  to  the  deeper.  If  I  am  to  adopt 
Wordsworth's  doctrine,  I  should  found  it  on  history  rather 
than  on  theory;  and  no  doubt  there  is  this  to  be  said  for 
it,  that  the  poets — at  least  the  English  poets — who  have 
been  most  famous  in  their  day  and  generation  have  not 
taken  a  corresponding  rank  in  the  days  and  generations 
that  have  followed. 

Tennyson's  work  came  out,  as  I  have  said,  seasonably 
for  us  mourners;  and  the  impression  it  made  upon  me,  as 
upon  others,  was  signal  and  profound. 

"  Have  you  read  Tennyson's  '  In  Memoriam  "?"  I  wrote 
to  Miss  Fenwick,  1st  July,  1850.  "  It  is  a  wonderful  little 
volume.  Few — very  few — words  of  such  power  have 
come  out  of  the  depths  of  this  country's  poetic  heart. 
They  might  do  much,  one  would  think,  to  lay  the  dust  in 
its  highways  and  silence  its  market  toAvns.  But  it  will 
not  be  felt  for  a  while,  I  suppose;  and  just  now  people  are 
talking  of  the  division  of  last  Friday." 

Long  after  this  date,  some  fourteen  years  after,  "In 
Memoriam  "  reappears  in  a  letter  to  Alice:  "  I  met  in  the 
train  yesterday  a  meagre,  sickly,  peevish-looking  elderly 
man,  not  affecting  to  be  quite  a  gentleman,  and  bearing 
rather  a  strong  likeness  to  Nettleton  the  ironmonger,  and 
on  showing  him  the  photographs  of  Lionel  Tennyson  which 
I  carried  in  my  hand,  he  spoke  of  '  In  Memoriam,'  and 
said  he  had  made  a  sort  of  churchyard  of  it,  and  had  ap- 
propriated some  passage  of  it  to  each  of  his  departed 
friends;  and  that  he  read  it  every  Sunday  and  never  came 
to  the  bottom  of  the  depths  of  it.  More  to  be  jirized 
this,  I  thought,  than  the  criticisms  of  critics,  however 
plauditory." 


Chapter  VII. 

MY  FATHER'S  LAST  YEAR.— IIIS  DESCRIPTION  OF  SIR  JOHN 
IIERSCHEL.— SIR  ROBERT  PEEL'S  DEATH.— ILLNESS  OF  MY 
FATHER  AND  MOTHER.— MY  FATHER'S  DEATH,— MY  MOTH- 
ER'S LETTERS  IN  THE  FOLLOWING  YEAR  (1851). 

Anno  Dom.   1850-51.     Anno  ^Et.  50-51. 

My  father's  sight,  always  so  imperfect,  had  been  failing 
more  and  more  in  1849;  and  in  the  first  months  of  1850, 
tliongh  still  able  to  write,  no  effort  or  device  could  cnaljle 
liini  to  read.  Tliis  was  a  severe  deprivation.  His  life  had 
been  a  life  of  reading,  and  for  the  last  thirty  or  forty 
years  a  life  of  little  else.  It  may  not  be  worth  while  per- 
haps for  a  man  to  order  his  whole  life  with  a  view  to  what 
may  become  of  it  in  an  old  age  which  may  happen  not  to 
bo  reached;  but  if  the  closing  years  can  be  cared  for  with- 
out much  sacrifice,  it  will  be  well  in  the  matter  of  occupa- 
tion not  to  put  all  upon  one  plank.  My  father  had  yet 
nearly  twelvemonths  of  life  to  get  through  when  he  found 
that  his  occupation  was  gone:  "I  yesterday  laid  aAvay  in 
my  silver  snuff-box  my  equally  useless  eye-glass,  my  valu- 
able bosom  friend  for  so  many  years.  I  could  not  but 
think  of  Johnson's  melancholy  lament  on  his  old  servant 
and  friend: 

"■'Condemned  to  Hope's  delusive  mine, 
As  on  we  toil  fiom  day  to  day ; 
'  By  sudden  stroke  or  slow  decline 

Our  means  of  comfort  drop  away.' 

I  hate  this  harping  on  the  same  string,  and  Avill  endeavor 


Wiiion  still  Preferred.  55 

to  cure  myself  of  it;  but  as  it  is  always  striking  on  one's 
own  sense  it  is  difficult  to  prevent  the  reverberation.  One 
string  can  never  tire  any  of  us  when  it  sounds  constant 
affection  for  you  and  yours." 

We  had  long  been  urging  them  to  leave  their  solitary 
abode  in  the  north  and  live  either  with  us  or  near  us.  We 
had  now  found  a  house  quite  near  which  seemed  all  that 
they  could  wish.  But  my  father  could  not  be  persuaded 
to  leave  Witton  Hall.  My  mother  ascribed  his  decision 
to  "the  unaccountable  reluctance  of  old  people  to  change, 
especially  change  of  place,"  saying  at  the  same  time  that 
she  felt  it  herself;  but  I  think  she  felt  something  else  too. 
My  father  was  incapable  of  fear,  and,  Avhenever  it  was 
possible,  unconscious  of  infirmity;  and  this  would  often 
expose  him  to  no  little  danger  when  out  of  her  sight. 
Lord  Montcagle  once  gave  us  an  account  of  what  he  had 
witnessed  with  dismay,  when  Sir  Charles  Barry  took  my 
father  over  the  works  at  the  top  of  the  new  Houses  of 
Parliament,  then  in  course  of  construction.  Old,  half -blind, 
and  subject  as  he  was  to  attacks  of  giddiness,  he  stepped 
along  the  narrow  planks  extending  over  the  yawning 
chasms  with  the  utmost  indifference,  contending  as  he  went 
that  the  principle  of  a  certain  mechanism  for  hoisting, 
■which  Sir  Charles  supposed  to  be  new,  was  known  to  the 
Romrms,  and  was  to  be  found  in  "Vitruvius."  Now,  at 
Witton,  he  solaced  his  unoccupied  hours  with  walking  in 
the  carriage  drive  that  led  to  the  Hall,  and  had  no  induce- 
ment to  go  beyond  his  own  gates;  whereas  if  he  were  to 
live  in  our  neighborhood,  the  streets  of  London,  with  all 
their  crossings,  would  be  at  hand. 

Instead  of  my  father  and  mother  coming  to  live  near 
us,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cameron  came. 

Mil  April,  1850. — "I  went  to  dine  with  them  one  day 
last  week,  to  meet  Sir  John  Ilerschel,  a  very  striking-look- 


56  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

ing  man,  with  a  face  older  than  liis  ago,  but  full  of  fire, 
and  very  intellectual,  lie  asked  me  to  pay  him  a  visit  in 
the  country,  and  perhaps  I  shall,  some  day.  Science  is 
what  I  can  least  penetrate  in  the  intellectual  world,  and  I 
appreciate  scientific  greatness  merely  as  a  person  who  has 
no  ear  for  music  would  appreciate  the  greatness  of  Han- 
del, knowing  it  without  understanding  it.  But  it  would 
still  be  interesting  to  me  to  see  what  a  great  philosopher 
is  like.'\ 

My  father  replied:  "  Your  mother  writes  on  other  mat- 
ters; I,  to  impress  upon  you  the  anxiety  I  feel  that  you 
should  by  all  means  cultivate  the  acquaintanceship  with 
the  offer  of  which  Sir  John  Ilerschel  has  honored  you. 
You  are  not,  indeed,  prepared  to  receive  any  advantage 
which  scientific  demonstration  may  convey,  but  you  can- 
not fail  to  receive  impressions  and  suggestions  which  will 
enlarge  and  enrich  your  mind;  for  your  intellectual  range 
has  been  far  too  limited  in  proportion  to  your  powers.  I 
speak  of  Sir  John  Ilerschel,  not  from  being  myself  com- 
petent to  comprehend  all  the  sublimities  of  his  science,  or 
to  follow  him  in  the  marvellous  means  of  its  demonstra- 
tions, but  from  knowing  just  enough  to  feel  my  mind 
exalted  by  the  contemplation  of  the  wonders  of  divine 
power  and  Avisdom  ;  and,  when  these  seem  to  dwarf  all 
human  intelligence,  yet  is  our  gratitude,  admiration,  and 
regard  excited  by  the  knowledge  that  some  gifted  indi- 
viduals are  empowered  to  comprehend  these  sublimities 
and  to  unfold  them  to  the  comprehension  of  their  fellow- 
men.  When  the  British  Association  met  at  Newcastle 
Sir  John  Ilerschel  Avas  president,  and  Lord  Monteagle's 
intimate  acquaintance,  Peacock,  the  Leucasian  ])rofessor 
of  astronomy  at  Cambridge,  vice-president.  They  had 
been  rivals  in  the  schools  at  Cambridge,  and  Peacock 
boasted  that  he  was  but  second  wrangler  only  because 


Sir  John  Herschel.  57 

Herschcl  was  the  first  ('  ct  secinn  certasse  feretur ').  Pea- 
cock's good-nature,  knowing  my  very  near  sight,  placed 
me  within  two  of  the  president's  chair,  and  never  was  I  so 
struck  with  the  grandeur  of  a  liuman  countenance  as  Avith 
that  of  Sir  John  Herschel,  displaying  the  majesty  and  en- 
ergy of  genius,  softened  into  dignified  suavity  of  deport- 
ment; and  the  latter  qualities  Averc  happily  influential  in 
regulating  the  proceedings  of  the  assembly;  for,  philoso- 
phers as  they  were,  they  required  some  gentle  pressure  to 
keep  them  to  the  point  in  hand,  and  especially  to  check 
the  acid  effervescence  of  Babbage." 

To  this  I  replied:  "I  am  quite  of  your  mind  about  Sir 
John  Herschel,  and  though  as  regards  the  faculties  Avhich 
have  made  him  famous  I  can  only  see  him  through  a  glass 
darkly,  yet  in  other  respects  I  can  see  him  face  to  face; 
and  I  am  glad  to  have  had  one  opportunity  of  so  seeing 
him,  and  will  find  others  if  I  can.  I  am  told  that  he  is  a 
shy  man,  and  I  saAv  a  sort  of  tremulous,  nervous  excita- 
bility in  him,  together  with  great  fire  and  force  of  expres- 
sion. But  I  dare  say  the  shyness  would  not  appear  when 
you  saw  him  in  the  chair  of  the  British  Association;  for  it 
very  often  happens  that  mere  social  shyness  does  not  fol- 
low a  man  into  public  life  or  molest  him  when  he  has 
something  serious  to  do." 

It  seems  strange  to  me  now  that  I  did  not  seek  and 
l^ursue  and  improve  the  opportunities  of  Avhich,  at  this 
time,  I  appear  to  have  had  such  a  friendly  offer.  I 
wish  there  were  more  reason  why  it  should  seem  strange. 
But  the  retrospect  of  life  swarms  Avitli  lost  opportuni- 
ties. 

It  is,  to  my  mind,  one  of  the  greatest  triumphs  of  pho- 
tography, and  of  Mrs.  Cameron's  gift  in  that  kind,  that  Sir 
John  Herschel's  face,  wanting  nothing  of  the  truth  and 
force  of  my  father's  description,  has  been  perpetuated,  so 
XL— 3* 


58  Autdbiograjyhy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

that  future  generations,  as  well  as  the  present,  may  see  it 
as  he  saw  it,  in  all  its  grandeur  and  dignity. 

On  the  3d  July,  1850,  comes  a  letter  to  my  father, 
with  a  notice  of  another  celebrated  man: 

"I  am  writing  within  earshot  of  the  military  band 
which  is  playing  at  St.  James's  Palace,  as  usual  on  a  levee 
day  ;  and  all  the  people  are  attending  the  levee  in  their 
gay  clothes,  while,  on  the  other  side  of  Whitehall,  Sir  Rob- 
ert Peel  is  lying  a  corpse;  for  he  died  last  night  at  eleven 
o'clock.  I  should  think  there  must  be  a  gloom  over  the 
queen  and  court,  for  certainly  there  is  over  the  town.  lie 
has  always  been  said  to  be  a  man  of  few  personal  attach- 
ments, and  more  admired  and  respected  than  beloved — a 
cold  and  unconfiding  man;  but  people's  feelings  on  the 
death  of  such  a  man  are  in  proportion  rather  to  his  public 
importance  than  to  his  attaching  qualities,  and  his  death 
seems  to  be  strongly  felt.  In  my  estimation,  though  be 
was  not  a  great  man,  he  was  a  very  important  man,  and 
it  is  difficult  to  say  what  the  country  may  not  suffer  by 
his  loss." 

In  May,  1850,1  paid  a  visit  to  the  old  people  at  Witton, 
the  last  in  which  I  found  and  left  them  both  living;  and 
I  wrote  to  Mrs.  E.  Villiers  :  "My  father  is  in  his  seventy- 
eighth  year,  my  mother  in  her  eightieth;  the  action  of  the 
mind  vigorous  in  both.  Ilcrs  a  light  and  elastic  vigor; 
his  accompanied  with  some  excitement,  which  must  be 
trying  in  old  age.  I  trust  to  my  constitutional  indolence 
for  giving  rue  a  sleepy  old  age,  if  I  live  to  be  very  old." 

In  the  August  following  my  father  had  an  illness  indi- 
cating disease  of  the  heart,  and  jjcrhaps  apoplectic  or  par- 
alytic tendencies.  He  recovered  a  fair  measure  of  health 
before  the  end  of  the  moiitli;  and  my  mother,  too,  seemed 
to  recover  froiii  the  shock  to  her  nerves,  and  their  usual 
frame  of  mind  and  habits  of  life  were  resumed  for  some 


My  Father's  Last  Illness.  5» 

few  weeks  more.  But  the  blow  liad  been  struck.  When 
my  father  suffered  another  seizure,  heart  disease,  with 
violent  spasmodic  asthma,  were  suddenly  developed  in  my 
mother;  so  that,  for  the  time,  her  life  seemed  in  even  more 
immediate  danger  than  his. 

What  happened  to  him  is  described  in  a  characteristic 
note  made  in  his  pocket-book. 

JVbvember  4th. —  "I  consider  myself  to  have  had  a 
slight  general  paralytic  affection  for  some  days  ;  fingers 
numb;  letting  things  drop;  and  can  neither  button  nor 
tie  a  knot  without  repeated  failures.  Jane  thinks  my 
voice  and  speech  altered.  I  have  not  yet  detected  failure 
of  intellect;  but  as  the  eye  seeth  not  itself,  so  the  percep- 
tive faculty  cannot  judge  of  its  own  state." 

In  the  following  month  their  doctor  was  of  opinion  that 
either  of  them  might  be  expected  to  die  at  any  moment; 
but  in  the  event  it  proved  that  my  father's  death  alone 
was  imminent. 

The  days  of  December,  when  both  he  and  my  mother 
were  expecting  their  death,  presented  an  aspect  which  I 
should  imagine  is  not  common  on  such  occasions.  The 
physical  phenomena  were  no  doubt  ordinary  enough,  or 
only  otherwise  inasmuch  as  they  were  coincident  and  al- 
most identical  in  husband  and  wife.  For  my  father,  as 
death  approached,  suffered  as  well  as  my  mother  from  dis- 
ease of  the  heart  and  spasmodic  asthma,  though  till  within 
three  or  four  days  of  his  death  he  had  intervals  of  peace, 
lasting  sometimes  for  hours,  while  my  mother's  struggles 
for  breath  were  almost  incessant,  hardly  ever  intermitting 
for  more  than  an  hour  at  a  time.  Both,  when  able  to 
speak,  spoke  in  their  usual  tone,  and  without  any  dejares- 
sion  of  spirits.  My  father  I  described  as  "clear-headed, 
clear  in  memory,  easy  and  fluent  in  conversation,  talking 
as  well  as  he  ever  did  on  literary  and  scientific  subjects, 


CO  Axitobiograjyhy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

quoting  passages  in  poetry,  animated  -without  being  ex- 
cited." The  next  day  I  wrote  that  he  had  had  a  dreadful 
niglit,  passed  in  struggles  which  I  had  thought  it  almost 
impossible  that  he  should  survive:  "He  catches  at  every 
hope  of  death  being  hastened, .  .  .  lie  is  kind  and  thought- 
ful for  everybody  in  the  intervals  when  his  sufferings  are 
not  all-powerful,  seldom  passing  an  hour  without  some 
token  of  care  and  kindness  for  one  person  or  another." 

On  the  following  day  "  the  great  step  has  been  taken  of 
making  my  mother  acquainted  with  the  more  immediate 
danger  in  which  my  father  stands  since  the  last  two  days, 
and  of  allowing  her,  as  indeed  she  would  not  be  forbidden, 
to  frequent  his  room  at  times,  and  necessarily,  therefore, 
to  witness  what  he  suffers  from  time  to  time  in  his 
spasms.  And  she  has  taken  all  so  quietly  that  I  doubt 
now  whether  his  death  will  be  hers,  AVhile  she  was  pre- 
vented from  seeing  him,  and  she  saw  there  was  a  mystery 
in  the  matter,  she  suffered  more  from  terrors  than  she  suf- 
fered afterwards  from  seeing  the  worst.     So  true  is  it 

that— 

"  'Present  fears 
Are  less  than  horrible  imaginings,' 

Her  spirits  do  not  seem  bad,  in  general.  There  is  noth- 
ing of  the  depression  I  recollect  in  her  some  fifteen  years 
ago,  after  her  mother's  death,  when  a  sort  of  nervous 
fever  was  upon  her  for  four  or  live  months,  ...  It  seems 
strange,  but  we  are  not  Avithout  some  gleams  of  mirth. 
My  mother  and  I  had  always  been  used  to  laugh  at  my 
father's  particularities,  and  it  amused  him  to  be  laughed 
at,  and  this  is  not  quite  over  even  now.  It  is  strange,  too, 
how  strong  the  hold  is  that  literature  and  science  have 
upon  him  still.  After  Dr,  Green  had  seen  him  the  day 
succeeding  that  terrible  IMonday  night,  I  was  in  the  din- 
ing-room hearing  what  Green  had  to  say,  and  as  I  do  not 


My  Father's  Death.  61 

leave  bira  for  long  together  I  went  up  tAvice  to  see  what 
was  going  on.  My  mother  was  with  him.  The  first  time, 
I  came  upon  something  he  was  telling  her  about  'the  boy 
Ascanius;'  the  second  time  he  was  speculating  upon  the 
reasons  of  breathing  being  easier  with  sound  than  witli- 
out,  and  considering  how  tlie  action  of  the  respiratory 
muscles,  which  are  such  simply,  may  be  aided  by  calling 
into  action  the  set  of  respiratory  muscles  which  produce 
sound." 

The  only  fear  which  entered  into  the  feelings  of  either 
of  them  was  my  mother's,  that  she  might  die  before  my 
father.  Her  chief  anxiety  was  that  my  father  should  die 
first,  not  knowing  what  would  become  of  him  on  losing 
her,  if  he  should  be  the  survivor.  Her  wish  was  granted. 
He  died  on  the  2d  January,  1851.  She,  though  health 
and  strengtli  were  utterly  at  an  end,  and  she  could  never 
again  walk  more  than  a  few  steps  at  a  time,  lived  on  for 
two  and  a  half  years,  and  died  on  the  12th  April,  1853,  in 
the  eighty-fourth  year  of  her  age. 

During  the  earlier  and  some  other  portions  of  this  re- 
mainder of  life  her  diflficulty  in  breathing  made  oral  in- 
tercourse distressing  to  her,  and  she  preferred  to  live  in 
solitude  and  maintain  a  loving  intercourse  with  us  by  let- 
ter. And  her  letters  are  not  only  as  ardently  affectionate 
as  in  her  better  days,  but,  all  her  bodily  and  mental  suf- 
ferings notwithstanding,  they  have  the  same  character 
of  liveliness,  sagacity,  and  strength.  My  own  interest  in 
them  is,  of  course,  such  as  no  one  else  can  feel;  but  I  be- 
lieve that  portions  of  them  will  not  be  lost  upon  those  to 
whom  human  nature  is  interesting,  seen  in  the  Aveakness  of 
disease  and  extreme  old  age,  and  in  the  strength  which 
death  only  can  defeat.  And,  having  this  belief,  I  will  close 
this  chapter  with  extracts  from  those  of  them  which  were 
written  in  1851,  the  eighty-second  year  of  her  age. 


C3  Aidobiograjphy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

Her  brother,  General  Mills,  had  been  devoted  to  her  in 
earlier  life,  but  he  had  felt  deeply  aggrieved  by  her  mar- 
riage -when  early  life  was  past,  and  had  lived  in  more  or 
less  alienation  from  her  ever  since.  My  father's  death, 
and  tlic  a|i})roach  of  death  to  himself  and  to  her,  had 
brought  back  the  old  love: 

"  lie  is  full  of  affection  and  tenderness  towards  me  now. 
Often  have  I  been  convinced  that  one  never  should  use 
expressions  during  the  hateful  period  of  resentment  that 
can  wound  the  pride  or  vanity  of  the  offender  in  a  degree 
that  never  dies  away.    Natural  love  will  naturally  return." 

"SVillington,  where  he  lived,  Avas  not  many  miles  from 
Witton;  but  the  state  of  his  health  incapacitated  him  for 
moving,  and  ho  urged  her  to  leave  her  solitary  abode  and 
live  witli  him.  There  were  probably  more  objections  tlian 
one,  but  there  was  one  of  a  prevailing  force: 

\hth  January.  "  I  feel  sure,  if  I  was  at  Willington,  the 
general  would  be  all  kindness  and  indulgence  ;  only  one 
thimx  he  would  be  for  overruling  me  in.  It  would  half 
kill  him  if  he  could  not  get  to  my  funeral;  and  as  Wit- 
ton  is  so  far  oft*,  he  would  wish  it  to  be  at  Brancopeth,  and 
have  it  there  in  spite  of  me,  saying, 

"  'Earth  to  eartli,  and  dust  to  dust, 
Here's  a  hole,  and  in  you  must,' 

as  when  the  birds,  mice,  etc.,  were  to  be  interred  in  the 
orchard  in  our  younger  days." 

Soon,  however,  as  her  brother's  suft'erings  increased  and 
her  own  intermitted,  her  resolution  was  shaken. 

To  Alice,  22f7  January.  "  I  cannot  but  be  very  thank- 
ful for  even  a  short  relief  from  pain,  but  I  am  no  way 
anxious  for  a  continuance  of  life.  I  cannot  look  in  the 
face  of  any  future  life  upon  earth  Avithout  unutterable 
anguish  of  mind;  but  Avith  God  all  things  are  possible, 


31y  Mother's  Letters.  63 

and  he  can  order  it  otherwise.  So  I  rest  my  cares  upon 
him.  My  dear  brother  at  Willington  has  had  a  fresh 
attack  of  ilhiess ;  but  lie  still  Avishes  a  union  in  the  same 
habitation;  and,  poor  man,  I  don't  think  I  can  refuse  him 
should  it  be  in  my  power  to  comply.  At  present  he  is  in 
the  worst  state  of  the  two;  so,  as  yet,  I  cannot  form  any 
plan  at  all,  but  must  be  as  a  thing  upi'ooted  and  driven 
about  by  the  wind,  and,  as  far  as  self  is  concerned, 
scarcely  feeling  a  preference  to  place  or  companion,  be- 
yond what  leaves  me  most  in  quiet  and  alone,  where  I  may 
commune  with  myself  in  my  chamber  and  be  still.  .  .  . 
Kiss  the  dear  young  ones  for  me  over  and  over  again, 
and  the  old  one  too,  if  you  will ;  for  nothing  on  earth 
is  now  dearer  to  me — so  much  of  what  I  have  lost." 

In  her  next  letter  she  alludes  to  a  little  specimen  of 
Charles  Spring  Rice's  drollery  which  I  had  repeated  to  her. 
His  brother  Aubrey  and  Charles  and  I  were  dining  at 
their  father's  house,  to  which  Aubrey  had  just  returned 
on  quitting  his  first  curacy.  I  asked  Aubrey  how  he  had 
got  on  in  his  parish;  on  which  Charles  leaned  across,  in- 
terposing in  an  undertone — "  Oh  !  have  you  not  heard  ? 
Great  success — subscription  of  the  parishioners — silver 
egg-spoon." 

Her  letter  was  in  answer  to  one  in  which  I  had  told  her 
that  some  one,  desiring  to  do  honor  to  my  father,  had  sent 
me  an  obituary  notice,  asking  me  to  contribute  to  it,  and 
I  had  replied  that  any  public  notice  of  him  would  have 
been  contrary  to  his  habitual  feelings,  but,  if  any  were  to 
be  published,  it  might  be  well  to  mention  his  "Index 
Idoneorum,"  for  the  chance  that  any  opportunity  of  print- 
ing it  should  arise. 

And  on  this  she  writes: 

26^/i  Fcbniari/.  "My  feelings  respecting  these  notices 
are  much  the  same  as  yours.     They  are  near  connections 


64  Autdbiograjphy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

of  the  piece-of-plate  admirers,  and  wlien  tliere  is  little  to 
be  said  they  are  merely  egg-spoons.  .  .  .  INIy  solitude 
seems  to  cause  distress  among  all  my  friends,  thinking 
their  part  should  be  to  prevent  it;  while,  in  fact,  they  are 
better  engaged,  and  in  my  present  suffering  state  of  body 
and  of  mind  it  is  all  in  vain.  Solitude  is  the  best  and  the 
most  comfortable.  Do  not  all  the  animal  creation  hide 
themselves  under  such  circumstances  ?" 

In  the  following  month  of  March  her  brother  died.  I 
adverted  to  their  recent  reconciliation  as  consolatory,  and 
she  answered  that  she  felt  all  those  consolations  and  had 
dwelt  ujjou  them  as  such.  "Yet  they  soften  the  heart, 
making  it  more  tender  to  tlie  stroke  of  separation."  Then 
she  spoke  of  a  relative,  whose  help  had  been  most  valuable 
to  her  brother  in  his  last  days,  as  it  had  formerly  been  to 
herself.  "  Her  attendance  must  have  given  support  to  her 
aflSiicted  cousins.  They  are  diffident  and  she  is  confident; 
they  are  soft  and  overpowered,  she  is  usefully  hard;  but 
not  so  as  to  prevent  her  giving  aid  with  all  the  thought 
and  all  the  affection  that  can  be  required.  .  .  .  My  dear 
Robert!  never  were  a  brother  and  sister  more  tenderly 
attached;  and  latterly  how  the  revival  overflowed  in  all 
his  frequent  little  notes,  and  I  could  not  get  to  see  him. 
.  .  .  My  generation  is  fast  passing  away;  and  though  it 
seems  strange  that  I  am  thus  left,  so  long  have  I  looked 
with  anxiety  to  the  tottering  lives  that  are  gone,  that  the 
departures  were  partly  time-worn  ere  they  took  place.  .  .  . 
Bell  often  says  to  me"  (Bell  was  her  maid), " '  I  am  sure  any 
one  of  these  things  Avould  have  killed  you  a  year  or  two 
ago,'  And  why  they  do  not  kill  me  now,  when  I  am  more 
than  half  dead,  is  very  wonderful.  Weeks  and  months 
of  sleepless  nights  do  not  kill  me;  everything  I  look  u})Ou 
gives  me  pain  and  does  not  kill  me;  every  thought  that 
comes  into  my  head  is  as  a  dagger  to  my  heart,  and  yet  in 


31y  Mothey's  Letters.  65 

a  degree  guarded  as  it  used  not  to  be.  The  only  agree- 
able sensation  I  have  felt  was  when  dreaming  of  a  dog. 
I  have  loved  them  in  my  little  short  sleeps  with  old  feel- 
ings; but  I  would  not  like  to  have  one  now.  If  I  were  to 
die  now,  who  would  take  it  ?" 

The  death  of  her  sister,  Mrs.  Nesfield,  had  followed 
almost  immediately  on  that  of  her  brother,  and  (probably 
owing  to  the  renewed  shocks)  her  suffering  from  want  of 
breath  had  been  again  severe. 

\<oth  April.  "I  have  slept  more  the  last  two  nights, 
panting  and  groaning  aloud  all  the  time,  and  knowing  it. 
But  dreams  make  me  know  that  I  do  sleep.  If,  as  you 
think,  dreams  show  my  powers  of  loving  and  enjoyment 
with  my  dogs,  they  certainly  do  not  my  bodily  powers  ; 
for  I  dream  of  running  and  most  youthful  doings,  totally 
out  of  my  power  for  life.  Such  delight  and  scampering 
and  frolic  with  old  Mungo  I  had  the  other  night,  meeting 
him  at  the  front  door  at  Willington;  and  he  no  less  de- 
lighted, and  we  talked  together  and  were  so  loving.  I 
have  not  thought  of  this  dog  for  half  a  century,  I  should 
think.  ...  I  have  heard  it  remarked  that  kind  nature 
generally  made  the  sleep  of  the  unhappy  to  carry  them 
quite  away  from  their  waking  thoughts,  that  their  sleep 
might  be  refreshing.  I  now,  whenever  I  sleep,  dream  of 
your  father,  but  merely  the  common  daily  matter  of  our 
life  here,  when  no  illness  was  in  our  thoughts." 

In  May  the  daughter  of  the  sister  she  had  lost  came 
to  see  her,  and  the  meeting  of  the  two  mourners  is  de- 
scribed : 

"  Her  natural,  simple  manner  allows  me  to  see  exactly 
what  her  feelings  are;  and  though  it  is  perhaps  the  first 
deep-felt  sori'ow  she  has  yet  known,  it  comes  from  a  happy 
sort  of  mind,  with  a  great  flow  of  animal  spirits  ready  to 
rise  between  the  pangs  of  regret;  and  they  will  ere  long 


GG  Autobiograplaj  of  Henry  Taylor. 

get  tlie  mastery  of  the  eommon  lot  of  mankind,  especially 
as  there  was  every  circumstance  of  comfort  attending  the 
dei)arture  of  her  who  was  indeed  much  to  poor  May,  and 
who  will  be  sadly  missed  for  a  time— her  companion,  her 
counsellor,  her  occupation.  The  vacant  room,  the  awaken- 
ing anguish  of  returning  thought— all  these  things  she 
feels  as  others  have  felt;  but  they  are  new  to  her  and  they 
will  all  pass  away,  and  all  places  will  be  filled  again  by 
her  dear  children  and  her  husband.  In  these  dear  ties  she 
feels  herself  happy,  and  she  enjoys  being  here,  and  she 
talks  and  laughs  with  all  the  heartiness  of  early  days." 

I  had  had  occasional  glimpses  of  this  niece  of  my 
mother's  when  she  Avas  a  child  or  a  very  young  girl,  and 
the  freshness  and  brightness  of  her  nature  had  lent  a 
charm  to  every  glimpse,  as  she  had  known  none  but  lit- 
tle troubles  in  those  days,  and  Laudor's  lanthe  was  not 
more  light-hearted — 

"O'er  yon,  lanthe,  little  troubles  pass, 

Like  little  ripples  down  a  sunny  river ; 
Your  pleasures  spring  like  daisies  in  the  grass, 
Cut  down,  and  up  again  as  blithe  as  ever  " — 

and  in  the  July  of  this  year  I  met  her  again  when  I  was 
on  my  way  from  Witton,  and  stopped  at  her  house  to  give 
an  account  of  my  mother  to  her  remaining  sister,  Mrs. 
Britton,  several  years  older  than  her  very  old  self,  but,  by 
a  law  of  her  being,  invincible  in  the  enjoyment  of  life,  let 
time  and  tide  do  Avhat  they  would.  I  wrote  to  my  mother 
after  my  visit,  Cth  July:  "I  found  the  people  at  East- 
field  all  in  good  plight ;  Mrs.  Britton  looked  like  an  aged 
Euphrosyne  or  an  octogenarian  Ilebe — her  face  beaming 
with  happiness  and  occasionally  with  mirth.  It  was  a 
pleasure  to  see  her.  But  the  pleasure  of  all  pleasures  was 
to  see  little  May  again,  who  looked  and  laughed  so  like  her 
little  self,  that  if  it  had  not  been  thirty  years  too  late  I 


My  Mother's  Letters.  67 

tliouglit  I  slioulJ  have  fallen  in  love  with  her  on  the 
spot." 

Mrs,  Cameron,  though  she  had  barely  seen  my  mother 
at  Tunhridge  Wells,  and  had  nevei',  I  think,  spoken  to 
hei',  could  not  hear  of  her  sufferings  without  endeavors  to 
alleviate  them,  by  providing  her  with  one  appliance  or 
another  for  giving  comfort  and  relief  in  sickness,  and  my 
mother  writes: 

22(?  31ay.  "  I  think  I  might  have  found  good  Mrs. 
Cameron's  loving  letter  difficult  to  answer;  and  though  I 
have  a  sort  of  scruple,  as  if  it  was  rather  wicked  to  refuse 
kindness  and  charitable  love,  yet  I  cannot  help  being  glad 
that  yon  saved  me  all  feeling  about  it.  As  to  that  horrid 
race  of  pictures,*  never  send  another.     I  have  one  of  you. 

M Avas  one  day  saying  that  that  taken  from  your  bust 

was  by  far  the  most  like  you  of  any  picture  she  had  seen 
of  you.  I  was  numbering  them  and  mentioned  the  above- 
named  horror.  She  asked,  '  What  is  it  like  ?'  and  I  an- 
swered, according  to  the  first  suggestion  of  my  mind, 
'  Like  a  dying  idiot.'  She  Avas  almost  choked  with  laugh- 
ter, and  made  me  seek  it  everywhere  till  I  found  it;  and 
she  Avas  astonished  at  the  likeness  to  what  you  appeared 
one  morning  after  sitting  up  all  night  in  distress.  We 
showed  it  to  Bell, and  she  exclaimed — 'Oh!  how  A-erylike 
Mr.  Henry  one  morning  AA'hen  he  had  been  sitting  up  all 
night.'  I  have  felt  more  resjject  for  the  thing  since 
that." 

By  the  month  of  July  she  had  so  far  improved  in  health 
that  it  seemed  possible  she  might  be  able,  sooner  or  later, 
to  travel,  and  we  again  urged  her  to  take  up  her  abode 
with  us. 

lAth  July.     "A  thousand  thanks  to  you  and  dear  Alice 

*  Tliey  were  photographs,  but  not  Mrs.  Cameron's.  Her  practice  of 
photography  was  begun  many  years  later. 


68  Aut6bio(jraphy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

for  all  your  kind  thoughts  of  me,  and,  above  all,  for  your 
desire  to  have  the  care  of  a  troublesome,  dying  old  woman, 
whose  state  is  that  she  seems  incapable  of  either  living  or 
dying,  sticking  between  the  two." 

Then  she  adverts  to  the  wish  of  Mrs.  Britton  and  her 
relations  in  Yorkshire  that  she  should  live  with  them. 

"When  capable  of  enjoying  society  I  should  have  it  in 
Mrs.  Britton  and  my  niece.  .  .  .  May  Darley  would  be  a 
great  deal  to  rae;  she  is  old  enough  for  me  and  also  young 
enough.  I  think  the  old  assort  well  with  the  old.  The 
very  young  cannot  sympathize  with  what  they  never  felt 
and  what  is  so  different  from  themselves.  They  may  com- 
passionate age,  but  it  is  incomprehensible  to  them,  and 
frequently  appears  ridiculous  and  fanciful.  The  old,  from 
remembrance,  can  and  often  do  sympathize  with  the  young; 
but  their  experience  only  mortifies  if  it  is  believed.  So 
that  I  think  the  old  should  go  together.  ...  It  is  only 
illness  or  affliction  that  prevents  my  still  liking  the  young, 
and  even  children,  for  my  company.  But  that  day  is  past. 
I  can  no  more  be  anything  to  anybody  but  a  burden  to 
exercise  their  charity;  and  I  am  willing  to  be  that;  and  I 
feel  perfectly  assured  that  neither  you  nor  Alice  would 
grudge  it  me,  cither  in  my  present  state  or  after  you  are 
both  disappointed  in  your  expectations  of  my  appearing 
comfortable  under  everything  that  can  bo  done  to  make 
me  so.  Sickness  and  death  overrule  everything.  Don't 
imagine  I  write  in  low  spirits.  My  cheerfulness  deceives 
every  one,  I  believe,  ...  I  dare  not  think  much  of  the 
chances  of  seeing  all  of  you,or,  indeed,  any  of  you,  again; 
but  it  is  a  comfort  to  think  I  am  no  way  necessary  to  the 
well-being  of  any  one;  and  though  I  may  well  indeed  be 
satisfied  with  the  kind  affection  of  many,  even  beyond  the 
lot  of  most  old  women,  I  may  yet  slide  out  of  the  world 
without  occasioning  more  than  just  a  sad  farewell.  .  ,  . 


My  Mother'' s  Letters.  60 

I  know  your  room  is  everything  a  room  can  be;  but  pain 
makes  all  rooms  alike,  and  speechlessness  makes  all  society 
pretty  much  the  same;  only  for  the  invaluable  knowledge 
that  hearts  are  in  unison,  though  tongues  can't  tell  it ; 
for  hearts  will  find  a  thousand  ways  to  express  them- 
selves." 

Another  attack  succeeded,  and  she  was  apparently  at 
the  point  of  death ;  but  in  August  she  had  rallied  once 

more,  and  she  writes  with  her  usual  animation:  " is 

neither  old  enough  nor  young  enough  for  me.     I  like  the 
vivacity  of  youth  and  the  ripeness  of  age.     There  is  often 
a  dulness  between  that  makes  me  impatient;  and  there  are 
those  who  never  have  either  youth  or  age,  and  that  is  dul- 
ness throughout."     And  of  our  children  she  says:  "They 
all  came  too  late  for  me,  except  that  they  give  the  future, 
when  I  think  of  the  days  that  are  coming  and  Avhen  I  can- 
not see  them,  a  richness  and  a  hope  that  is  very  valuable 
to  me,  compared  w^ith  the  vacancy  I  used  to  contemplate 
for  you  and  Henry."     And  then,  adverting  to  the  renewed 
question  whether  she  might  not  take  up  her  abode  with 
us,  she  adds:  "My  love  is  with  you  and  my  thoughts 
and  my  prayers;  but  my  poor  body  is  here  for  the  present, 
if  not  till  the  resurrection.  ...  I  have  been  as  attentive 
to  my  own  health  and  experience  as  if  I  much  wished  to 
live.     That  I  am  turned  to  stone  has  perhaps  been  in  my 
favor  as  to  continued  life.     Was  not  Niobe  turned  to  a 
stone  statue  by  her  affliction  in  all  her  children  being 
killed  by  lightning?     I  never  thought  of  this;  but  I  do 
believe  that  it  is  a  case  that  has  been  before  mine.     At 
any  rate  my  heart  has  beaten  itself  to  pieces,  and  I  could 
never  say  where  it  was,  it  was  so  often  out  of  its  usual 
place.     Perhaps  it  may  be  quite  quiet  soon." 

In  August  Miss  Fenwick  had  joined  us  atMortlake,  and 
it  was  to  her  the  next  letter  was  written:  "  I  have  not  yet 


'iO  Autohiogi'aphij  of  IJcnry  Tmjlor. 

lost  my  memory;  and  it  seems  to  bring  you  all  tlircc  before 
mc,  seated  and  conversing  together;  the  dear  little  ones 
playing  about  you;  in  short,  all  that  is  dearest  to  mc  now 
left  in  the  -world.  And  yet  I  should  be  as  one  not  belong- 
ing to  you,  so  little  is  there  left  of  me.  It  is  strange  that 
a  few  old  letters  had  got  out  of  the  way  of  the  general 
conflagration,  and  at  the  end  of  one  this  met  my  eye:  'I 
pity  everything  that  loves.  What  a  field  of  miseiy  does 
it  open.  IIow  seldom  does  one  hear  of  two  friends  dying 
at  the  same  time.  But  if  you  die  first  I  think  I  could  not 
long  survive;  or  if  my  body  survived,  ray  mind  would  fly 
off  in  search  of  its  kindred  spirit.'  Now  here  I  am,  sev- 
eral months  after  this  severe  stroke,  still  in  a  manner  sur- 
viving, though  my  body  hourly  crumbling  away  and  only 
bones  left.  My  mind  has  taken  no  flight;  it  is  conscious 
that  it  cannot  of  itself  reach  its  kindred  spirit,  and  it 
seems  turned  into  stone  and  dropped  by  its  own  weight 
upon  the  cold,  unsympathizing  earth,  while  my  friends  all 
remain  kind  to  me,  and  naturally  think  that  their  affec- 
tion might  recall  something  of  my  former  self.  If  I  could 
be  anything,  mind  or  body,  that  I  was  a  year  ago,  their 
society  Avould,  indeed,  be  a  restorative;  but  constant  un- 
easiness precludes  almost  everything  else.  I  cannot  enter 
into  any  conversation,  and  everything  wearies  me.  But, 
thank  God,  I  can  read  some  books  with  interest,  and  I  can 
feel  a  grateful  thankfulness  to  my  gracious  heavenly 
Father  on  the  frequent  remembrance  of  pain  no  longer 
suffered,  and  a  desire  to  submit  myself  in  pious  resigna- 
tion to  his  will  in  all  things." 

Next  comes  a  letter  from  me  to  her:  "The  principal 
event  of  the  week  has  been  the  appearance  of  Bessie,  born 
Tudor,  otherwise  Mrs.  Thorpe,  who  spent  the  day  Avith  us 
on  Sunday,  along  with  Mrs,  Tudor  and  Dossie,  It  was  a 
strange  sort  of  sight  to  me  after  sixteen  years  of  separa- 


My  Mother's  Letters.  "^^ 

tion.  The  difference  in  her  was,  that  whereas  she  looked 
like  a  child  sixteen  years  ago,  she  looked  now  like  a  wom- 
an of  seven-and-twcnty,  being  in  reality  ten  years  older 
than  that.  I  felt  as  if  my  old  fondness  for  her  had  been 
lying  at  compound  interest  all  these  years,  and  that  a  great 
sum  of  it  had  come  to  hand  at  once.  It  is  odd  that  the 
two  persons  whom  I  had  the  greatest  fancy  for  as  chil- 
dren and  girls  should  come  across  me  again  this  summer, 
within  a  few  weeks,  after  so  many  years  of  absence,  and 
that  both  of  them  should  appear  in  their  own  likeness,  and 
bring  back  upon  me  with  so  much  force  what  I  felt  about 
them  formerly.  May's  face  was  the  more  altered  of  the 
two,  but  the  manner  and  expression  was  so  perfectly  the 
same  that  the  alteration  did  not  tell.  Bessie's  face,  though 
somewhat  altered,  was  rather  more  than  less  pretty,  and 
she  too  was  all  herself." 

In  September  she  writes  of  Miss  Fenwick:  "...  I 
have  been  wishing  all  this  week  to  be  with  her,  and  yet 
that  might  be  the  very  worst  thing  for  her.  Though  few 
people  have  had  more  sympathy  in  each  other's  sorrows, 
we  have  as  different  a  constitution  in  these  things  as  can 
be  found;  for  I  can  be  wretched  without  being  low-spirited, 
and  she  can  be  low-spirited  without  being  wretched.  I 
wake  in  the  morning  (when  fortunate  enough  to  have  been 
asleep)  with  an  aching  dread  of  life  upon  me,  and  yet  I 
go  through  the  day  in  a  way  that  no  one  would  imagine 
but  that  life  was  as  agreeable  to  me  as  to  themselves." 

And  she  writes  to  Alice:  "My  love  is  always  with  you, 
and  I  will  tell  you  so  as  long  as  I  have  the  power  to  speak 
and  write."  Her  orchard  had  been  robbed,  and  she  says 
she  could  very  well  spare  the  apples,  and  the  robbery 
saves  her  having  them  gathered  to  give  away.  "  But  still  I 
would  subdue  the  rogues,  if  possible.  Bell  enjoyed  going 
about  with  an  old  brush  covered  with  tar  and  daubing  all 


73  Auiobiograj)hy  of  Ilenry  Taylor. 

the  accessible  places;  for  she  is,  as  an  old  woman  of  Will- 
ington  used  to  say,  in  vitriol  against  rogues — meaning  in- 
veterate. .  .  .  I  continue  to  look  worse  and  worse,  though  I 
really  feel  Letter;  and  I  cat  a  great  deal  more,  and  grow 
more  and  more  like  a  skeleton;  great  veins  lying  in  all 
directions  upon  the  bones  and  kept  down  by  skin  only; 
a  hideous  sight,  walking  about  and  seeing  and  hearing 
like  a  living  thing.  ...  I  am  so  glad  that  you  do  like 
Marion  Brown  and  May  Darley;  it  is,  indeed,  very  j)leas- 
ant  to  me,  for  it  shows  me,  though  I  did  not  doubt  it,  how 
ready  you  are  to  be  kind  in  your  welcome  to  Henry's 
early  fancies — a  strong  proof  of  love,  and  love  of  the  best 
kind.  You  have  won  their  affections,  dear  Alice;  and  if 
mine  had  not  been  won  before,  this  would  have  won  them. 
...  I  find  from  Lady  Milbanke  they  are  all  extremely 
anxious  to  persuade  me  to  set  out,  first  being  taken  upon 
a  mattress  by  men  to  the  station,  then  put  into  an  express 
carriage,  not  to  stir  out  till  I  reach  York,  then  in  their 
own  little  carriage,  five  miles  turnpike  to  Eastfield;  and 
the  next  thing  must  be  to  be  put  into  a  hearse  and  carried 
to  Bossal,  and  then  everybody  having  done  their  duty  by 
me,  and  I  being  undoubtedly  in  heaven,  all  may  be  hap- 
pv.  Certainly  the  last  remove  would  make  all  the  others 
of  small  concern  to  me.  But  what  ifs  there  are  in  the 
way." 

^ith  November.  "...  I  remember  one  of  the  most  mis- 
erable days  of  my  childhood  was  after  telling  my  mother 
of  the  nurserymaid's  carelessness  in  letting  the  baby  put  a 
nut  into  his  mouth  when  she  was  cracking  them  for  her- 
self. My  mother  was,  of  course,  very  angry  with  her,  and 
nothing  could  console  me  or  dry  my  eyes  for  days  after- 
wards, nothing  could  soothe  my  feelings  in  any  way,  but 
Jenny's  soft  voice  of  pity  for  me,  and  just  saying,  'Then 
you  should  not  have  told  of  me.'     No  anger  could  Jenny 


My  Mother's  Letters.  'J'S 

ever  feel  towards  me,  and  I  loved  her  dearly,  and,  not- 
withstanding all  the  love  that  has  since  dwelt  in  my 
heart  for  others,  shall  I  ever  forget  that  which  I  felt  for 
Jenny." 

\Uh  Kovember.  "Your  account  of  Isabella  Fenwick 
alarms  me,  I  have  seen  a  groat  falling  off  in  her  state  for 
a  long  time  now,  and  I  fear  a  gradual  decline  of  all  her 
powers.  The  word  'emaciated '  cannot  surely  belong  to  her ; 
yet  it  quite  stabbed  me  to  the  heart  when  I  read  it.  ...  I 
had  a  note  from  Mrs.  Britton  this  morning.  What  a  won- 
derful old  lady  she  is — so  fresh  in  mind.  She  enjoys  her 
books  as  much  as  any  age  can  do.  Divinity  is  her  favorite 
study;  but  she  is  richly  stored  with  information  on  many 
subjects,  and  carries  all  on  with  a  continued  thread  of  re- 
flection, uniting  them  in  one  highway  towards  futurity. 
Her  knowledge  does  not,  like  that  of  many  ladies,  lie  in 
neat,  clean  heaps  in  their  granary,  but  it  is  sown  and 
reaped  and  given  for  food,  and  often  yields  novelties  by 
cultivation." 

I  was  shortly  enabled  to  relieve  her  from  her  fears 
about  Miss  Fenwick,  who  was  restored  before  the  end  of 
1851,  not  to  health,  indeed,  or  to  anything  like  it,  but  to 
a  condition  in  which  no  fatal  change  was  imminent. 

And  now,  much  as  I  cling  to  this  last  correspondence 
with  my  stepmother,  I  must  leave  it  for  a  while  and  write 
of  other  things. 

II.— 4 


Chapter  VIII. 

AUTUilNAL  CHANGES.  — AUBREY  DE  VERE  SWERVING  TOW- 
ARDS ROME.— "THE  WISE  WOMAN  I3UILDETII  HER  HOUSE." 
—SIR  JOHN  PAKINGTON.— ARCHBISHOP  OF  YORK.— LORD  AND 
LADY  JOHN  RUSSELL.— NEWSPAPERS.— LADY  HATHERTON.— 
WITTON  ONCE  MORE.  — MY  IMOTHER'S  LETTERS  AGAIN.— 
THE  FUNERAL  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON.— MY  MOTH- 
ER'S di:ath.— iNHSs  fenwick's  last  yeap.s  and  death. 

Anno  Ihm.  18:^1 -".2.     Anno  Aii.  51-o2. 

On  my  birthday,  18tli  October,  1851,  Miss  Fenwick 
wrote  to  me  witli  all  the  ardor  of  her  old  affection,  and  I 
answered  ber  from  tbe  Grange: 

"Love  is  always  strong  in  you,  whatever  else  fails;  and 
I  am  grateful  that  you  bavc  all  that  love  to  give,  as  well 
as  grateful  for  getting  it.  My  birthday  (autumnal  as 
those  days  are  now  in  more  ways  than  one)  came  this  year 
after  one  of  the  happiest  and  most  untroubled  summers 
that  I  can  recollect  to  have  spent;  and  I  have  some  diffi- 
culty in  making  out  that  fifty-one  years  have  brought  me 
more  of  inward  age  than  thirty  or  forty  did.  I  have  written 
no  verse  for  the  last  year  or  two,  which  looks  like  an  effect 
of  advancing  years;  and  the  entries  in  my  commonplace 
book  are  few,  from  which  I  gather  that  I  see  less  of  Avhat 
is  new  and  strange  in  the  world  and  that  I  am  not  visited 
by  fresh  and  felicitous  thoughts.  But  less  of  solitude  may 
account  for  this,  as  well  as  decay  of  susceptibility.  Per- 
haps, too,  business  may  have  had  a  larger  share  of  my 
mind,  Stephen  no  longer  standing  as  a  breakwater  between 
me  and  the  tide  of  affairs.   .  .   .   Aubrey  de  Vere  has  come 


Autumnal  Changes.  75 

to  London  on  his  Avay  to  Rome,  whither  he  is  accom- 
panied by  Manning,  He  writes  of  himself  as  making  up 
the  accounts  of  his  studies  and  meditations.  With  a  mind 
like  his,  the  more  the  study  and  meditation  the  less  the 
chance  of  just  thinking.  Such  minds  stand  in  need  of  be- 
ing simplified;  and  the  more  they  think  the  more  they  are 
complicated.  Nevertheless,  it  is  right  and  necessary  that 
his  mind  should  work  according  to  his  nature,  and  abide 
by  the  results." 

In  the  previous  year  (that  of  the  Gorham  controversy), 
while  these  meditations  of  Aubrey's  had  been  going  on, 
he  and  I  had  corresponded  on  the  subject  of  them;  and 
the  letters,  though  too  long  to  find  room  here,  may  find 
it,  perhaps,  in  a  volume  of  my  correspondence,  if  such  a 
volume  should  be  produced.  In  a  letter  written  to  some 
one  else,  I  spoke  of  his  meditations  as  gyrations  of  the 
wounded  bird,  not  of  the  bird  that  soars.  I  did  not  an- 
ticipate that  he  could  find  rest  and  satisfaction  in  the 
church  to  which  he  seemed  to  be  gravitating.  In  this  I 
was  mistaken;  he  has  found  peace  and  happiness  in  that 
church.  In  my  commonplace  book,  at  a  later  period,  I 
find  a  note  of  a  conversation  between  Alice  and  John 
Walpole.  Walpole  had  quoted  Dr.  Manning  as  having 
said  that  in  the  tJhurch  of  Rome  he  had  found  com- 
pleteness and  rest.  But  Alice  replied  that  to  find  com- 
pleteness and  rest  is  to  find  the  Avrong  thing;  inas- 
much as  a  finite  being  can  only  find  completeness  in 
infinite  truth  by  dwarfing  it  to  his  own  stature.  Plow- 
ever  this  may  be,  as  Aubrey  found  the  church  in  which 
his  "  soul  was  satisfied  "  we  ought  to  rejoice.  His  con- 
version was  a  loss  to  us,  no  doubt,  but  the  friendship 
had  been  interwoven  with  almost  every  thread  of  Alice's 
life,  and  for  ten  or  twelve  years  with  many  threads  of 
mine;   and  whatever  was  lost  to  it,  enough  was  left  to 


70  Autohlograjyhy  of  Henry  2'mjlor. 

give  vitality  to    twenty  friendships  of  a  less  tenacious 
texture. 

We  had  now  lived  about  eight  years  by  the  river-side 
at  Mortlake;  but  we  began  to  doubt  whether  the  situa- 
tion suited  the  children  in  point  of  health.  Some  land 
abutting  upon  Sheen  Common  came  into  the  market  on 
easy  terms;  the  site  Avas  in  all  respects  eligible;  and  I 
bad  other  motives  also  for  buying  and  building.  Under 
ordinary  circumstances,  when  I  had  money  to  spare 
(which  seldom  happened),  it  had  been  my  way  to  be 
content  with  the  most  unenterprising  of  all  investments. 
On  one  occasion  I  wrote:  "The  money  is  going  into 
good  old  consols.  I  believe  the  good  old  creature  to  be 
in  a  course  of  very  gradual  decay,  owing  to  gold  discov- 
eries past  and  to  come;  and  I  believe  land  to  be  in  prog- 
ress of  continual  enhancement,  owing  to  increase  of  popu- 
lation and  agricultural  improvements;  but  I  give  the 
preference  to  consols  for  the  sake  of  convenience.  It  is 
a  stupid  old  drudge,  which  docs  its  work  in  a  quiet  way 
and  gives  no  trouble;  and,  in  my  estimation,  there  is  no 
greater  merit  than  that."  But,  in  1852,  when  a  house  in 
a  more  healthy  situation  was  wanted,  I  applied  what 
money  I  had  in  consols  to  provide  one.* 

*  When  I  have  said  that  /  did  this  or  that  with  my  money,  "  I  "  should 
be  understood  as  personified  by  Alice.  Tlie  charge  of  money  and  the 
dealing  with  it  has  always  been  a  trouble  and  inconvenience  to  mc,  and 
in  the  first  week  of  tlie  honeymoon  I  transferred  them  to  Alice.  It  was 
an  unreasonable  proceeding,  for  I  knew  next  to  nothing  of  licr  then,  but 
it  has  proved  to  be  the  best  thing  I  could  have  done  for  others  as  well  as 
for  myself;  and  though  it  was  the  transference  of  a  burden,  I  do  not 
think  it  was  a  heavy  one  to  her.  When  my  eldest  daughter  was  a  young 
girl,  another  young  girl  who  lived  near  us  at  Sheen  said  to  her,  "For 
Heaven's  sake,  Nell,  don't  let  us  give  up  being  helpless  and  foolish ;  my 
mother  did  long  ago,  and  she  has  always  had  to  carry  her  carpet-bag  her- 
self."    Alice  has  hud  to  cany  her  own  carpet-bag,  but  it  has  been  com- 


Eemoval  to  Sheen,  77 

The  house  was  designed  by  Alice,  and  completed  in 
June,  1853,  and,  whether  to  live  in  ox*  to  let,  it  has  done  a 
great  deal  more  than  answer  every  purpose  that  could  be 
expected  of  it.  In  health  and  wealth  and  comfort  we 
have  profited  by  it  largely;  and  the  text  that  the  "wise 
woman  buildeth  her  house,"  which  was  not  at  all  believed 
in  by  many  of  our  friends  at  the  outset  of  our  undertak- 
ing, was  abundantly  verified  and  acknowledged  in  the 
issue. 

In  February,  1852,  there  had  been  a  change  of  govern- 
ment, with  the  pressure  upon  persons  in  my  position 
Avhich  is  usual  on  such  occasions. 

I  wrote  to  Miss  Fen  wick:  "  This  change  of  government 
is  exceedingly  troublesome  to  me.  I  am  very  sorry  to 
lose  Lord  Grey — the  most  laborious,  able,  public-spirited, 
and  honest-minded  of  the  eleven  secretaries  of  state  un- 
der whom  I  have  served,  and  to  me  personally  the  most 
friendly  of  any,  except  Lord  Aberdeen,*  But  that  is  not 
all.  You  may  imagine  the  bewilderment  of  the  new 
men  stepping  into  the  wilderness  of  affairs  in  the  colonial 

paratively  light  in  hand,  and  the  contents  are  wortli  twice  wliat  tliey  would 
have  been  in  tlie  hands  of  any  one  else. 

*  Lord  Grey  for  many  years  of  his  after  life  performed  tlie  part  of  a 
clear-sighted  and  sagacious  observer  and  critic  of  the  political  proceedings 
of  others,  but  with  far  less  of  participation  in  thena  than  was  to  be  desired 
for  tlie  good  of  the  country.  He  is  a  man  of  strong  opinions,  conscien- 
tiously and  tenaciously  maintained,  and  he  has  fallen  upon  times  when  co- 
operation and  compromise  for  the  purposes  of  co-operation  have  become 
indisi)ensable  elements  of  political  power  in  its  most  active  and  effective 
exercise — that  is,  in  ofBce.  An  independent  bystander  witii  a  higli  politi- 
cal position  and  reputation  may,  no  doubt,  perform  services  of  imjiortance 
to  the  country,  and  these  have  not  been  wanting;  but  to  those  who  have 
the  measure  of  Lord  Grey's  practical  and  administrative  gifts  and  faculties, 
tlie  loss  the  country  has  suffered  by  his  too  scrupulous  inflexibility  is  mat- 
ter of  great  regret. 


78  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

office,  'witliout  any  experience  of  public  affairs  in  any  of- 
fice whatever.  Tlie  appointment  of  Sir  John  Pakington 
has  been  treated  with  very  general  ridicule;  and  I  Avish 
he  had  been  still  more  unknown  than  he  is;  for  then  one 
could  better  conceive  that  something  new  had  been  dis- 
covered in  the  way  of  a  capable  man;  but  he  seems  to  be 
just  known  enough  in  the  House  of  Commons  to  make 
people  believe  that  they  have  the  measure  of  him,  and 
that  he  comes  short.  The  little  I  have  had  an  opportu- 
nity of  seeing  of  him  would  not  lead  me  to  think  him  any- 
thing more  or  less  than  a  man  of  sense.  I  am  afraid  that 
is  far  from  being  a  man  of  sufiicicncy  for  the  office  of 
secretary  for  the  colonies;  but  it  is  very  possible  he  may 
prove  to  be  more,  and  much  more  likely  he  should  prove 
more  than  less.  So  I  wait  to  see.  In  the  meantime,  I 
have  the  prospect  of  hard  labor  either  way." 

Hard  labor  notwithstanding,  I  found  time  for  a  little 
dissipation. 

"I  have  been  rather  social  lately;  and  I  even  went  so 
far  as  to  sta}^  a  night  in  town,  and  go  to  a  j^arty  at  Lord 
John  Russell's,  where  I  met  the  Archbishop  of  York, 
looking  like  a  plain,  strong,  secular  man  of  the  two-bottle 
orthodoxy  school,  quite  as  earthly  a  man  as  I  had  ex- 
pected, but  more  considerable  and  robust  in  character, 
unaffected,  and  wholly  undisturbed  and  unperplexed  by 
any  aspirations  after  anything  better  than  he  is.  Rather 
like  a  man  of  the  last  century,  when  nothing  better  was 
expected  or  thought  of.  A  better  meeting  was  with 
Lady  Lotty  Elliot,  the  one  of  the  Minto  Elliots  who  is 
now  about  the  age  that  her  elder  sisters  were  when  I  first 
knew  them,  some  sixteen  or  eighteen  years  ago.  Lady 
Lotty  made  me  feel  as  if  my  youth  had  come  back  to  me, 
and  I  was  losing  my  young  heart  to  a  Lady  Somebody 
Elliot  once  more.     They  are  a  fine  set  of  girls  and  women 


Lord  John  Eussell.  '^ 

those  Minto  Elliots,  full  of  literature  and  poetry  and  nat- 
ure; and  Lady  John,  whom  I  knew  best  in  former  days, 
is  still  very  attractive  to  me;  and  now  that  she  is  relieved 
from  the  social  toils  of  a  first  minister's  wife,  I  mean  to 
renew  and  improve  my  relations  with  her,  if  she  has  no 
objection. 

"  After  Lord  John  Russell's  resignation,  I  gave  her 
such  views  of  the  state  of  parties  and  the  policy  of  the 
opposition  as  I  had  been  enabled  to  gather  and  form  after 
a  good  deal  of  talk  with  Lords  Aberdeen,  Monteagle,  and 
other  old  politicians,  and  I  expressed  a  doubt  whether 
Lord  John  was  so  interwoven  personally  with  numerous 
men  of  his  party  as  to  be  able  to  hold  it  together  with 
the  requisite  amount  of  discipline  when  official  authority 
was  at  an  end.  She  answered  that  official  authority  had 
its  own  difficulties,  and  that,  as  to  a  party  and  party 
friends,  she  longed  for  the  days  when  everything  had 
seemed  wholly  good  or  wholly  bad,  and  the  only  ques- 
tion she  had  asked  was,  '  Was  he  good  or  was  he 
naughty  ?' 

"  She  is  very  interesting  to  me,  as  having  kept  herself 
pure  from  the  world,  with  a  fresh  and  natural  and  not  un- 
gifted  mind  in  the  world's  most  crowded  ways.  I  recol- 
lect, some  years  ago,  in  going  through  the  heart  of  the 
City,  somewhere  behind  Cheapside,  to  have  come  upon 
the  courtyard  of  an  antique  house,  with  grass  and  flowers 
and  green  trees  growing  as  quietly  as  if  it  was  the  garden 
of  a  farmhouse  in  Northumberland.  Lady  John  reminds 
rae  of  it. 

"Lord  John,  I  find,  has  undertaken  to  edit  the  posthu- 
mous papers  of  Anacreon  Moore. . . .  As  far  as  I  can  judge, 
he  is  taking  a  wrong  course  in  politics;  but  '  as  far  as  I 
can  judge'  is  but  a  little  way.  His  undertaking  this  lit- 
erary task  looks  as  if  he  did  not  expect  to  be  in  office 


so  Autohiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

again  very  soon;  and  I  doubt  much  "whether  he  will  be 
again  at  the  head  of  a  government — not  because  lie  is  less 
fit  for  it  than  the  other  men  who  are  forthcoming  in  these 
days,  but  because  a  government  formed  from  more  parties 
than  one  will  require  a  more  neutral  head." 

In  the  spring  of  1852  our  boy  caught  scarlet  fever,  and 
his  mother,  in  nursing  him  through  it  (she  did  not  allow 
any  servant  to  enter  the  room)  caught  it  herself.  It  was 
somewhat  severe  in  both  cases:  and,  when  they  were  able 
to  travel,  she  took  the  boy  to  St.  Leonard's-on-Sea,  the 
lociis  in  quo  of  our  marriage  thirteen  years  before.  I  was 
to  follow  in  due  season;  and  on  the  4th  May,  Alice  w^rote: 

"You  shall  be  as  little  sad  here  as  I  can  help.  'The 
sweet  years'  have  'insensibly  gone  by,'  and  stolen  from 
us  perhaps  as  much  as  they  have  given;  but  shall  we  not 
be  satisfied?  I  am  not  sad  here.  I  thought  I  could  not 
have  borne  it;  but  expected  sadness,  like  expected  joy, 
does  not  come.  I  have  been  reduced  in  mind  as  w-ell  as 
in  body,  and  am  become  again  like  a  little  child  for  a 
little  time.  Small  things  are  much  to  me,  and  I  can 
laugh  and  cry,  and  forget  all  about  it  directly.  The  sea, 
too,  is  very  companionable;  and  for  hours  I  can  sit  and 
listen  to  it  and  watch  its  perpetual  motion  and  be  content 
M'ith  the  sweet,  serious  idleness;  and  the  little  ones  are  a 
great  joy  to  me.  .  .  ." 

5th  May.  "...  I  was  out  for  two  hours  this  after- 
noon with  the  little  girls.  We  took  two  donkey  chairs, 
one  for  them  and  one  for  me,  and  away  we  went  over  the 
downs;  and  spring  was  in  the  air — the  gorse  was  in  full 
blossom,  the  hedges  full  of  primroses,  and  the  larks  could 
not  contain  themselves  for  joy.  And  very  beautiful  it  all 
seemed  to  me,  and  I  was  very  comfortable,  though  as 
languid  as  the  horse-chestnut  leaves,  which  seemed  as  if 
they  were  fainting  in  the  warm  air." 


Alice  at  /St.  Leonardos.  81 

I  went  down  to  see  her  for  a  day  or  two  from  time  to 
time,  and  after  one  of  my  visits  she  writes: 

"  I  think  I  must  be  in  an  unusually  happy  mood.  Yes- 
terday the  day  was  charming  in  itself,  and  I  had  you. 
To-day  we  have  had  a  cold  drizzle  all  the  afternoon,  and 
you  are  away;  and  yet  I  am  very  light-hearted  and  merry 
still.  Does  this  hurt  your  feelings?  Should  you  like  me 
to  tell  you  that  the  place  is  a  desert  without  you,  and  so 
on?  Or  shall  you  comfort  yourself  by  thinking  that  I  am 
happy  because  Saturday  will  soon  be  here  and  bring  you 
back  ?'' 

I  was  living  in  Mrs.  Villiers's  house  in  London.  She 
was  at  Grove  Mill,  and  I  only  saw  her  in  occasional  visits; 
and  I  lived  for  the  most  part  a  somewhat  solitary  life, 
thus  described  iu  a  letter  to  Miss  Fenwick: 

"As  for  my  London  life,  I  have  spent  most  of  my  even- 
ings alone  at  Rutland  Gate;  and  if  I  had  not  I  know  not 
how  I  should  have  got  through  what  I  have  had  to  do.  I 
do  not  know  why  I  should  have  so  much  less  time  now 
than  in  former  years,  but  it  seems  wonderful  to  me  that  I 
ever  could  have  found  time  to  write  plays  and  verses  or 
to  read  books.*  I  hardly  ever  read  books  now,  except  the 
manuscripts  which  my  friends  send  me  to  read  and  revise 
before  they  are  printed,  and  this  I  do  as  part  of  my  busi- 
ness in  life  which  must  be  got  through.  But  for  volun- 
tary occupation  it  seems  as  if  I  had  none — not  even  the 
taking  up  of  a  newspaper —  sometimes  for  weeks  to 
gether." 

During  much  of  my  youth  and  earlier  middle  age  I 
neglected  the  newspapers.  It  was  an  unwise  neglect,  and 
it  deprived  me  of  a  species  of  knowledge  which  no  one 
who  has  anything  to  do  with  mankind  can  afford  to  dis- 

*  I  was  foigetful.  James  Stephen  here  or  James  Stephen  there  made 
all  the  difference. 

II.— 4* 


82  Autohiographj  of  Henry  Tmjlor. 

pcnsc  with.     The  newspapers  of  those  days  were  very 
different  from  tlie  newsi)ai)crs  of  these;  hut  wliile  there 
Mere  some  attributes  of  the  newspaper  press,  belonging  to 
past  rather  than  to  present  times,  which  turned  me  away 
from  it,  there  were  also  attributes  common  to  both  times 
which  struck  upon  certain  inaptitudes  of  my  intellectual 
nature.     It  is  the  business  of  a  newspaper  to  give  the  ear- 
liest possible  intelligence,  and  it  is  the  aim  of  a  newspaper 
to  take  effect  upon  its  readers  by  expressing  opinions  on 
what  is  passing  with  boldness  and  confidence.     The  nec- 
essary result  is  that  opinions  are  expressed  on  imperfect 
knowledge,  and  with  a  confidence  that  is  premature;  and 
the  further  result  is  that  the  bias  of  a  premature  commit- 
ment pervades  the  opinions  to  be  expressed  upon  accru- 
ing knowledge.    It  does  not  suit  a  newspaper  to  say,  "  We 
were  a  little  hasty  when  we  said  this  or  that,  and  it  now 
appears  we  were  wrong."     They  never  do  say  it.     They 
back  out  of  the  opinion  under  some  disguise,  or  they  plunge 
on  in  it,  new  knowledge  notwithstanding.     The  nature  of 
my  mind  was  not  alone  duly  averse  from  audacious  ad- 
vances and  disguised  retreats;  it  was  «<«duly  averse  from 
partial  knowledge  and  provisional  opinions.     The  meas- 
ure of  superficial  knowledge  which  is  required  to  let  in  the 
light  upon  deeper  knowledge  is  not  easily  to  be  estimated 
in  the  case  of  any  mind;  but  in  the  case  of  every  mind  it 
is  a  large  measure.    And  still  more  difficult  is  it  to  appor- 
tion the  measure  of  diffidence  or  confidence  with  which 
superficial  knowledge  and  its  offspring  in  opinion  should 
be  entertained. 

But  my  distaste  for  the  newspaper  press  of  the  times  I 
speak  of  was  not  intellectual  only.  The  spirit  which  per- 
vaded it  was  a  spirit  generated  by  the  corruptions  of  ir- 
responsible power.  Political  parties  in  those  days  being 
divided  by  what  they  called  principles,  and  indeed  by 


Newspapers.  83 

what  wore  really  principles  in  a  derivative  sense,  the  odium 
2)oliticum  partook  of  the  same  intensity  and  intolerance 
which  is  usually  ascribed  to  the  odium  theologicwn;  and 
political  warfare  Avas  waged  with  a  personal  rancor  which 
could  put  on  the  mask  of  devotion  to  a  so-called  sacred 
cause.  From  this  resulted  a  habit  and  a  license  and  al- 
lowance which  extended  far  beyond  the  political  arena, 
and  a  tendency  on  the  part  of  the  public  and  of  juries  to 
confound  the  tyranny  of  the  press  with  the  freedom  of 
the  press. 

To  the  tyranny  of  the  press  as  it  reigned  in  the  days 
when  parties  were  really,  as  well  as  nominally,  divided  by 
principles,  I  had  a  heartfelt  aversion.  It  was  a  tyranny 
not  "  tempered  by  assassination,"  as  it  seems  to  be  at  the 
present  time  (1875)  in  Italy;  nor  by  the  restraints  of  a 
sanguinary  code  of  honor,  then  falling  fast  into  desuetude. 
The  pistol  was  laid  aside;  the  horsewhip  may  have  flour- 
ished for  a  season;  but  it  was  manifestly  still  more  impo- 
tent to  adjust  differences,  according  to  any  rule  of  right, 
than  the  pistol.  Southey  supplied  me  with  an  example. 
It  happened  to  Coleridge,  he  told  me — it  was  probably 
when  Coleridge  was  a  very  young  man — to  be  insulted  in  an 
article  by  an  editor.  He  Avent  to  the  office  of  the  news- 
paper Avith  horsewhipping  intentions;  and  on  asking  for 
the  editor  he  was  civilly  shown  into  a  back  room  and  re- 
quested to  Avait.  He  Avaited  for  some  time  in  more  or 
less  patient  expectation  of  his  victim.  At  length  the  door 
opened,  and  a  prizefighter  of  huge  dimensions  presented 
himself,  saying,  "  Sir,  i"am  the  editor." 

The  power  of  the  press  is  still  to  a  great  extent  irre- 
sponsible poAver;  but  it  is  exercised  by  a  different  order 
of  men,  and  tempered  by  a  different  tone  of  public  opin- 
ion. When  political  differences  were  no  longer  extreme, 
virulence  of  personal  invective  was  more  rarely  indulged 


84  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

in  by  writers,  and  began  to  be  less  acceptable  to  readers. 
Even  now  my  acquaintance  with  the  press  is  limited  (for  I 
belong  to  no  club  except  one,  which  only  meets  to  dine), 
and  I  am  not  free  from  some  doubt  whether,  were  it  more 
extensive,  my  admiration  of  the  abilities  of  its  writers 
would  be  accompanied  by  an  equal  admiration  of  their 
candor  and  good-feeling.  I  have  sometimes  asked  per- 
sons who  arc  better  informed  than  myself  whether  there 
is  one  good-natured  newspaper;  and  the  answers  were  not 
reassuring.  But  where  there  is  not  good-nature  there 
cannot  be  a  high  order  of  good-breeding.  I  fully  believe 
the  writers  in  the  principal  newspapers  to  be  gentlemen 
in  private  life;  and  if  they  divest  themselves  of  a  careful 
consideration  for  the  feelings  of  others,  it  is,  I  dare  say, 
only  when  they  are  persuaded  that  their  public  duty  de- 
mands the  disregard.  I  can  only  hope  that  they  find  it 
an  unpleasant  duty;  and  that  as  the  press,  and  public  sen- 
timent along  with  it,  reaches  a  still  higher  elevation,  it 
will  appear  to  them  that  they  give  themselves  unneces- 
sary pain,  and  that  public  duty  and  personal  kindness  and 
courtesy  are  compatible.  When,  in  the  continual  growth 
and  increase  of  generous  sentiment  and  aspiration,  this 
compatibility  shall  be  widely  recognized,  the  press  will 
take  the  rank  among  our  teaching  and  governing  instru- 
mentalities which  some  of  its  present  members  are  Avell 
fitted  to  adorn,  and  will  occupy  a  position  of  dignity  as 
Avell  as  power.  When  that  day  comes,  could  I  but  live 
to  see  it,  it  may  be  that  I  should  turn  to  my  morning 
paper  with  the  feelings  with  which  a  disciple  of  Zoroas- 
ter turns  to  the  morning  sun ;  perhaps  even  be  able  to 
understand  the  feelings  of  a  friend  of  Aubrey  de  Vere's, 
who,  according  to  Aubrey,  when  he  perceived  that  his 
much  valued  Times  had  been  mutilated  by  some  small  ex- 
cision, was  as  angry  and  indignant  as  if  some  one  "  had 


Visit  to  Witton.  85 

plunged  a  rash  band  into  the  affluent  tresses  of  his 
bride." 

I  think  I  had  begun  to  read  the  newspapers  habitually 
long  before  this  year  of  1852,  and  my  letter  to  Miss  Fen- 
wick  had  something  more  to  say  of  the  occupations  through 
which,  for  the  moment,  no  newspapers  could  make  their 
way: 

"  I  suppose  the  claims  upon  a  man's  time  gather  and  ac- 
cumulate as  he  proceeds  in  life,  till  the  time  when  he  be- 
comes notoriously  useless  and  inefficient.  But  I  have  no 
reason  to  complain  ;  for  almost  all  the  occupations  which 
fall  to  my  lot  are  interesting  to  me,  and  the  only  draw- 
back is  that  I  am  seldom  free  from  the  sense  of  some  obli- 
gations unfulfilled.  My  proofs  have  pressed  upon  me 
lately,  for  I  do  not  like  to  publish  new  editions  without 
very  careful  revision,  though  very  little  correction  per- 
haps. '  Van  Artevelde  '  is  done,  and  will  be  out  next 
week.  *  Edwin '  is  only  just  begun.  I  have  also  been 
busy  with  a  MS.  of  Lord  Grey's;  and  with  Spedding's 
'  Bacon.' " 

Alice  rejoined  me  before  the  end  of  May,  and  in  July  I 
paid  a  visit  to  my  mother  at  Witton.  She  had  been  suf- 
fering less  than  in  the  last  year,  but  was  very  weak.  "  I 
can  move  about  the  room  a  little  with  support,"  she  says, 
on  the  9th  of  July ;  and  soon  after  she  was  able  to  sit  out 
of  doors.  The  plundering  boys  and  youths  of  the  village 
had  been  tearing  down  the  walls  and  demolishing  her 
shrubs,  and  the  policeman  was  of  too  tame  a  temper  to 
give  much  assistance  to  her  maid,  the  sturdy  and  indig- 
nant "  Bell."     She  writes  : 

"The  want  of  courage  in  the  lower  classes  now  is  the 
root  of  much  evil.  I  always  call  it  timidity,  which  has  a 
great  effect,  because  that  word  has  been  applied  chiefly  to 
a  quality  that  is  odious  to  mankind  ;  and  finery  in  the 


80  Auiohiogmj>hy  of  Ucnry  Taylor. 

ladies  I  call  vulgarity,  Avliich  is  an  odious, word  to  the  fair 
sex;  and,  as  I  am  cuiisidured  somewliat  wise,  and  'to 
know  both  the  rich  and  the  poor,'  though  lying  here  un- 
able to  bark  or  bite,  I  have  some  weapons  of  defence." 
And  a  few  days  after  it  appears  "  the  peaceful-mannered 
policeman  threatened  to  act  like  a  lion.  He  says  Bell  is 
a  man  in  woman's  clothes.  I  asked  Bell  why  she  did  not 
retort  and  say  he  was  a  woman  in  man's  clothes." 

On  my  way  to  Witton,  or,  rather,  a  good  deal  out  of 
my  way,  I  stayed  a  day  or  two  with  Lord  and  Lady  Ilather- 
ton,  at  Teddesley  Park.  She  had  (unconsciously)  sat  to 
me  for  her  picture  in  Rosalba,  my  heroine  of  the  "  Sicilian 
Summer  :" 

"  In  the  soft  fulness  of  a  roundeil  grace, 
Noble  of  stature,  with  an  inward  life 
Of  secret  joy  sedate,  Rosalba  stands. 
As  seeing  and  not  knowing  she  is  seen, 
Like  a  majestic  child,  without  a  want. 
She  speaks  not  ofien,  but  her  presence  speaks. 
And  is  itself  an  eloquence,  which,  withdrawn, 
It  seems  as  thougli  some  strain  of  music  ceased 
That  filled  till  then  the  palpitating  air 
With  sweet  pulsations  ;  when  she  speaks  indeed, 
'Tis  like  some  one  voice  eminent  in  the  choir. 
Heard  from  the  midst  of  many,  sweetly  clear, 
With  thrilling  singleness,  yet  just  accord. 
So  heard,  so  seen,  she  moves  upon  the  earth 
Unknowing  that  the  joy  she  ministers 
Is  aught  but  Nature's  sunshine." 
When  that  account  of  her  was  written  (before  1850)  I 
had  known  her  by  little  more  than  her  looks.     She  was 
then  Mrs.  Davenport ;  and  I  find  myself  writing  to  her 
friend.  Lady  Langdale,  in  January,  1852  : 

"Mrs.  Davenport  Avritcs  me  word  that  she  is  going 
to  be  married.  Do  you  know  Lord  Ilatherton?  I  do 
not.  ...  I  know  very  little  of  j\[rs.  Davenport,  but  she  is 


At  Wilton.  87 

very  interesting  to  me,  and  I  wish  you  would  tell  me 
something  about  Lord  Ilatherton.  .  .  ." 

In  August  I  went  to  Witton,  and  there  I  found  my 
mother  in  extreme  muscular  weakness,  hardly  able  to 
walk,  but  "  strong  in  spirit  always,  fresh  in  mind,  and 
capable  of  taking  pleasure  in  the  flowers  and  the  trees 
and  the  cats  and  the  dogs,  and  all  that  belongs  to  the 
place. 

"And,  indeed,"  I  continued,  to  Alice,  2d  August,  "  it  is 
a  jjlace  to  be  much  admired  and  rejoiced  in  while  dog- 
day  weather  lasts,  and  I  have  never  been  more  sensible  of 
its  charms.  The  stables  were  the  only  questionable  feat- 
ure about  the  house,  being  made  to  wear  the  appearance 
of  a  chapel ;  and  they  are  now  so  overgrown  that  the 
outline  is  altogether  lost  and  they  imitate  nothing  but  an 
ivy-tod.  The  laurels,  which  my  mother  is  always  com- 
plaining of,  in  the  sort  of  way  in  which  a  proud  mother 
complains  of  her  great,  bouncing,  overgrown  boys,  have 
overshadowed  the  approach  so  much  as  to  turn  it  green 
with  moss ;  and  the  shrubbery  on  the  north  is  a  thicket 
of  laurel  and  holly  and  box  and  thorn,  too  close  for  al- 
most a  dog  to  penetrate.  The  river  has  been  occasion- 
ally coming  down  in  a  swollen,  tawny  flood,  owing  to 
rains  in  the  west.  The  Lynnburn  is  always  gentle  and 
placid,  let  rain  fall  where  it  may;  and  at  the  castle  there 
is,  to  my  eyes,  the  most  beautiful  bit  of  all,  which  is  a 
little  piece  of  flower-garden  behind  the  courtyard  and 
bounded  by  a  curving  sunk  fence,  with  a  wall  of  loose 
stones,  and  just  water  enough  to  give  rise  to  some  water- 
plants  against  the  wall,  and  roses  growing  all  along  the 
top  of  the  sunk  fence  in  deepish  grass,  a  few  trees,  Por- 
tugal laurel,  cypress,  and  sycamore,  growing  at  intervals 
— a  bit  of  garden -ground  just  sufficiently  neglected  to 
make  its  beauty  romantic,  and  to   harmonize  with  the 


88  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

empty  castle,  whicli  seems  to  liear  hanlly  any  voice  but 
that  of  its  own  clock,  telling  the  hours  to  the  gardener 
and  the  housekeeper  and  an  occasional  wayfarer.  I  have 
walked  round  the  castle  or  near  it  twice  a  day  ;  but  I 
should  not  have  said  that  bit  of  garden-ground  was  the 
most  beautiful  thing  in  my  eyes ;  for  what  has  made  me 
80  constant  to  this  walk  was  the  chance  it  gave  me  of 
seeing  a  peasant  girl  of  eleven  years  of  age,  who  lives  in 
the  cottage  at  the  farther  end  of  the  bridge.  I  think  I 
told  you  two  years  ago  how  beautiful  she  was.  She  is  at 
a  less  beautiful  age  now,  perhaps,  but  there  is  still  a  dark 
radiance  about  her  which  made  it  worth  my  while  to  shift 
my  beat  from  the  west  road  to  the  bridge  road  and  the 
castle.  ...  It  is,  I  think,  the  nearest  approach  to  a  solitary 
life  that  I  have  made  for  many  years,  and  it  seems  to  me 
to  quicken  the  sensibilities,  both  as  regards  the  absent  and 
the  unreal ;  and  I  feel  affectionate  and  more  or  less  poeti- 
cal. Were  I  to  live  such  a  life  long,  I  should  have  fits  of 
melancholy,  perhaps,  and  be  afraid  for  my  nerves,  not 
having  youth's  confidence  in  their  elasticity.  Poetry 
would  be  my  resource ;  but  that  too  would  M'ork  upon 
the  nerves." 

Alice  seems  to  have  thought  that  she  was  forgotten  in 
my  life  at  Witton.  What  she  said  I  know  not,  but  what 
I  answered  was:  "No,  you  have  a  friend,  and  no  rival,  in 
solitude;  for  you  are  seldom  more  with  me  than  you  have 
been  in  these  woods  and  highways  of  Witton-le-Wcar 
these  last  ten  days.  And  I  believe  that  the  presence  of 
the  absent  is  a  very  sen'iceable  variation  from  the  pres- 
ence of  the  present,  for  occasional  lightening  up  of  the 
more  imaginative  holes  and  corners  of  the  affections." 

To  Miss  Fcnwick  also  I  gave  an  account  of  my  walks 
and  meditations  at  Witton: 

"I  have  not  much  more  business  here  than  I  had  at 


Letter  to  Miss  Fenwick.  89 

Kelston  Knoll,  and  I  wander  in  the  woods  and  read  a  lit- 
tle, and  try  to  make  up  my  mind  on  the  question  whether, 
all  circumstances  of  life  considered,  I  am  capable  enough 
of  poetry  to  engage  in  another  considerable  work.  If  I 
were  to  live  at  home  as  I  do  here  I  should  have  less  doubt. 
Solitude  would  not  only  throw  me  upon  my  resources,  but 
provide  them.  But,  living  as  I  do  at  Mortlake,  with  busi- 
ness, family,  friends,  neighbors,  MSS.  to  read  and  criticise, 
letters  to  write,  a  house  to  build,  and  daily  casualties  of 
occupation  or  interruption  to  encounter,  I  do  doubt  whether 
poetry  is  still  strong  enough  in  me  to  make  its  way  and 
keep  its  course.  It  will  not  come  in  sallies,  jets,  and 
gushes;  for  that  was  never  much  the  way  of  it  with  me. 
That  is,  themes  will  not  come  in  this  way,  so  that  I  may 
ejaculate  a  song  or  an  ode  or  a  sonnet.  If  it  is  to  come 
at  all,  there  must  be  a  place  provided  for  it,  that  it  may 
set  its  feet  in  a  large  room.  If  I  had  the  dome  of  St. 
Peter's  to  illuminate,  I  might  hang  my  lamps  in  such  an 
order  and  array  as  would  take  the  eyes  of  beholders;  but 
I  cannot  to  any  good  purpose  hang  them  up  ea  -h  on  its 
own  lamp-post.  And  Avhere  is  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's  to 
be  found." 

I  left  Witton  early  in  August,  and  my  mother  fell  back 
upon  the  society  of  the  "  inferior  creatures  mute,"  whom 
she  so  much  loved. 

In  April  of  this  year,  when  her  death  was  expected  to 
be  immediate,  she  had  made  pecuniary  arrangements  for 
the  future  care  of  her  cats.  To  "  die  and  endow  a  college 
or  a  cat"  is  treated  by  Pope  as  if  the  latter  endowment 
were  a  subject  for  satire.  My  mother's  endowment  was 
merely  a  small  sum  to  an  old  servant,  who  would  share  in 
the  benefit.  The  cats  were  mother  and  son,  but  the  son 
died  before  her,  after  one  day's  illness,  and  she  writes: 

"  You  did  not  answer  my  intricate  case  about  my  sweet 


90  Autobiography  of  Ilcnhj  Taylor. 

Mossy's  effects.  I  consider  myself  to  be  trustee  in  the 
matter.  AVlio  slioukl  be  his  heir?  His  disconsolate 
mother  still  calls  him  to  eat  the  prey  she  catches  for  him, 
and  her  yells  are  quite  afflicting,  and  she  has  lost  her 
courage.  She  ran  into  the  house  the  other  day  on  the 
sight  of  a  dog  near  the  front  door.  She  follows  me  about, 
and  I  would  rather  she  did  not;  for  I  have  commenced 
some  curious  flirtations  with  the  robins.  Two  of  them 
call  to  me  out  of  the  bushes;  I  answer  them,  and  they 
come  to  see  what  I  am,  and  set  their  pretty  eyes  on  mine; 
and  then  they  come  close  to  me,  and  I  expect  in  a  few 
days  they  will  sit  on  my  hand.  I  used  to  have  all  sorts 
of  birds  at  my  feet  in  old  times  at  the  Bower  at  Will- 
ington." 

A  month  after  she  says:  "To-day  I  tried  to  direct  old 
Alick  about  cutting  the  laurels;  but  it  required  too  much 
speaking,  and  my  robin  is  afraid  of  everybody  but  me, 
though  he  begins  to  look  kindly  on  Bell,  as  she  is  so  much 
with  me.  Patie  " — this  was  a  horse — "  would  never  bite  a 
woman,  for  my  sake;  but  no  man  that  put  himself  in  his 
way  was  ever  spared." 

And  at  a  later  date:  "Janet,  our  ncAV  Scotch  damsel, 
was  in  the  orchard  before  breakfast  yesterday,  and  my 
robin  flew  upon  her  shoulder;  but  ^yhen  it  looked  up  in 
her  face,  and,  instead  of  seeing  the  wrinkles  and  tear- 
stained,  withered  cheeks  of  its  old  friend,  saw  Janet's 
pretty,  round,  blooming  cheek  and  sweet,  simple  smile,  the 
strange  little  animal  flew  away  in  terror.  So  there  is  a 
taste  to  be  found  for  everything,  and  that  is  wonderful 
among  wonders." 

Her  weakness  was  continually  increasing,  tliough  there 
was  much  abatement  of  the  more  painful  and  distressing 
elements  of  disease.  She  had  now  advanced  about  six 
months  in  her  eighty-third  year,  which  was  to  be  her  last 


My  Mother's  Last  Letters.  91 

(slie  only  lived  tliree  or  four  clays  in  her  eiglity-fourtb), 
and  for  the  first  time  she  intimates,  in  a  letter  of  the  23d 
September,  a  suspicion  which  had  crossed  her  of  some 
mental  change: 

"  I  always  observed  the  lonely  life  brings  on  a  dreamy, 
confused  intellect,  and  my  more  than  half-death  last  April 
has  left  a  blank  in  my  memory  that  causes  me  a  little 
jealousy  on  the  subject;  but  no  one  allows  that  they  per- 
ceive anything  of  the  kind  yet." 

Her  letters  by  no  means  justify  her  suspicion.  The  al- 
most flcshless  condition  to  which  she  was  reduced  made 
her  bed  very  uneasy  to  her,  and  she  had  said,  some  time 
before,  that  it  seemed  "  like  a  wood-pigeon's  nest,  which 
was  made  of  crossed  sticks,  and  in  which  no  creature  could 
find  rest  except  the  wood-pigeon."  But  Mrs.  Cameron 
had  sent  her  one  of  a  better  fabric,  and  on  hearing  that 
this  watchful  and  helpful  friend,  personally  unknown  to 
her,  had  recovered  from  an  illness,  she  desires  to  be  re- 
membered to  her,  and  says,  "  I  often  think  of  her  in  my 
nest,  and  begin  to  find  a  moss  lining  cover  the  sticks." 

But  at  this  time  her  rest  was  broken  by  a  trouble  which 
no  friendly  care  could  alleviate.  Mi's.  Britton,  her  only 
remaining  sister,  eighty-six  years  of  age,  seemed  to  be 
sinking  under  a  sevez'e  illness. 

"If  I  live  till  she  departs  I  shall  be  the  sad  survivor  of 
our  large  family,  and,  with  one  exception,  the  last  of  all 
that  I  knew  in  my  youth  and  middle  age — a  situation  that 
cannot  be  imagiuei"  (No  reference  to  past  feelings  and 
events  that  occupied  us  in  those  days,  and  that  are  con- 
tinually recurring  to  my  mind.)  "  And  the  last  of  the  ten 
Salvins,  in  his  eightieth  year,  departed  above  a  week  ago, 
I  hear.  They  and^your  family  were  those  most  dear  to 
me  in  the  world.  If  the  love  I  gave  and  received  in  those 
families  were  divided  over  our  queen's  dominions  in  equal 


93  Auiohiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

portions,  her  people  woul<l  have  too  much  for  any  wlio  is 
not  to  live  for  this  life  only." 

Of  the  letters  which  are  extant  belonging  to  my  cor- 
respondence "with  my  mother  in  1852,  the  last  (19th  No- 
vember) relates  to  the  funeral  of  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton: 

"Nothing  is  heard  of  in  London  now  but  the  duke's 
funeral.  The  Dean  and  Chapter  of  St.  Paul's  assigned 
me  a  place  in  the  cathedral  in  my  character  of  poet;  but 
I  did  not  occupy  it.  I  am  too  old  to  court  either  sadness 
or  emotion;  and  other  causes  also  made  me  shrink  from 
this  spectacle.  Death  is  too  great  a  thing  in  itself  to  be 
made  the  occasion  of  a  show;  and  the  greater  the  man 
the  less  I  feel  disposed  to  turn  his  burial  into  a  pageant. 
But  though  these  were  my  feelings,  I  believe  the  spectacle 
may  have  done  good.  I  hear  that  the  demeanor  of  the 
spectators  was  such  as  to  make  it  appear  that  they  had 
feelings  worthy  of  the  occasion;  and  glory  and  renown 
must  always  enter  so  much  into  military  motives  that  the 
army  and  navy  may  be  the  better  for  the  splendor  of 
these  obsequies." 

Humbler  obsequies  were  at  hand.  On  the  19th  March, 
1853, 1  was  summoned  to  Witton  by  Mrs.  Darlc}',  who  was 
with  my  mother,  and  believed  her  to  be  dying.  I  could 
scarcely  believe  it  myself  when  I  saw  her. 

Another  relative  had  arrived  on  a  sudden  impulse  of 
kindness,  and  in  ignorance  that  I  was  expected.  My 
mother  was  concerned  that  she  had  given  herself  the 
trouble,  and  said,  "Well,  it  will  just  be — 

"  '  Who  saw  lier  die? 
I,  said  tlie  fly, 
With  my  little  eye.'" 

I  wrote  to  Mrs.  Edward  Villicrs,  22d  March,  1853:  "I 
find  her,  though  thinking  her  end  very  near,  strong  in 


Wiiton-le-Wear.  93 

spirits  and  clear  and  lively  in  mind,  and  talking  of  the 
probabilities  of  dying  at  once  or  lasting  into  the  summer, 
just  as  she  might  talk  of  any  person  in  whom  she  took  no 
particular  interest,  and  laughing  at  the  doctors  for  the 
care  they  take  not  to  alarm  her.  She  will  complete  her 
eighty-third  year  next  Sunday,  The  niece  who  is  staying 
here  was  a  girl  of  ten  or  twelve  when  I  knew  her  before, 
I  being  then  a  youth  of  twenty-two;  and  a  very  charming 
child  I  thought  her  then,  and  a  very  charming  child  I  think 
her  still  —  clear,  swift,  and  decisive,  diffident,  but  inde- 
pendent, gay,  and  refined.  She  and  my  mother  are  very 
good  company  to  each  other,  both  having  always  had  a 
great  enjoyment  of  drollery,  Avhich  is  in  full  force  in  May 
Darley  and  by  no  means  extinct  in  my  mother,  so  that  I 
do  not  find  everything  so  dreary  and  dreadful  as  it  would 
be  supposed  to  be  by  any  one  who  knew  only  the  char- 
acter of  the  place  and  circumstances.  They  are  dreary 
enough.  Most  people  would  suppose  that  in  these  days 
and  in  England  a  'lonely  tower'  was  only  to  be  found  in 
Byronian  fictions;  but  here  it  is  in  its  real  presence.  For 
miles  round  there  is  no  gentleman's  house,  at  least  none 
tenanted,  except  that  of  the  parson,  who  never  comes  near 
my  mother.  For  as  many  miles  round  there  is  no  apothe- 
cary except  a  little  old  Frenchman,  who  was  fomierly 
mathematical  teacher  to  a  grammar  school  now  extinct, 
and  set  up. doctoring  under  considerable  doubts  as  to 
whether  he  had  ever  been  educated  for  it,  and  under  a 
certainty  that  he  has  no  lawful  title  to  practice.  The 
nearest  place  w'here  there  are  any  shops  (unless  you  give 
the  name  to  a  cottage  with  an  apple,  a  piece  of  ginger- 
bread, and  a  red  herring  in  the  window)  is  a  small  market- 
town  five  miles  off;  and  meat  is  only  to  be  obtained  once 
a  week.  The  walls  of  the  tower  are  four  feet  thick,  and 
down  the  middle  of  it  there  is  a  body  of  air  v.hich  has 


04  Autobiography  of  Ilcnry  Taylor. 

jiever  seen  tlic  sun  since  it  "was  first  imprisoned.  The 
furniture  is  all  fifty  yeai-s  old  and  upwards.  .  .  .  She  is 
nursed  by  a  strange,  -wild,  rough  maid,  speaking  a  lan- 
guage which  would  not  be  understood  out  of  Durham  and 
Northumberland,  idle,  obstinate,  and  ill-tempered,  but  hon- 
est and  attached,  threatening  to  leave  her  once  a  week, 
but  sure  to  stick  by  her  to  the  last.  Such  are  the  external 
circumstances,  and  the  disease  is  of  a  nature  to  cause  a 
great  deal  of  disturbance  and  distress  from  time  to  time, 
and  sleep  rather  aggravates  than  relieves  the  distress  for 
some  time  after;  but  still  the  spirit  is  unbroken  and  the 
mind  clear  and  lively;  and  though  she  wishes  to  die,  and 
would  be  glad  that  it  could  be  by  a  sudden  sti'oke,  yet  all 
is  not  so  unrelieved  and  depressing  as  might  be  imagined. 
It  is  not  like  watching  a  death  which  one  is  anxious  to 
avert.  I  have  long  wished  nothing  for  her  but  what  she 
Avishes  for  herself,  an  easy  transition. 

"She  suffered,  as  often  before  since  her  spasmodic  ill- 
ness, from  wdiat  she  described  as  a  sort  of  dragging  sensa- 
tion in  her  chest.  And,  having  been  lately  a  good  deal 
harassed  by  Bell,  her  maid  (described  above),  who  was  al- 
ways misbehaving  and  always  repenting  with  tears,  she 
said  her  'great  torments  were  Bell  and  the  draggin.'" 

The  end  of  all  came  on  the  13th  April — sleep  passing 
into  death  so  quietly  that  those  who  were  in  the  room  were 
not  aware  of  it. 

"So  ends,"  I  say  in  my  letter  to  Alice  of  that  day,  "of 
all  the  lives  that  I  have  known  the  most  strongly  and 
steadily  dutiful.  .  .  .  I  look  back  through  three-and-thirty 
years,  and  feel  how  much  remained  while  she  remained ;  and 
yet  for  the  last  two  years  and  a  half  I  have  had  no  desire 
that  her  poor  solitary  life  should  be  lengthened  out;  and  it 
will  be  a  relief  to  me,  I  dare  say,  to  have  no  longer  to  think 
that  she  is  sittinsr  here  in  her  solitude  awaiting  death." 


My  Stepmother's  Death.  95 

To  Miss  Fenwick  I  wrote: 

"  The  earth  covers  her  now,  and  a  truer  and  tenderer 
heart  it  never  did  cover;  and  in  an  hour  I  shall  leave  this 
place,  and  probably  never  to  see  it  again.  Oh  for  the  time 
when  I  could  turn  my  thoughts  to  you  for  comfort,  and  not 
think  of  you  as  afflicted  and  depressed.  But  sooner  or 
later,  and  in  one  way  or  another,  God  will  grant  us  a  happy 
issue  out  of  all  our  afflictions." 

For  Miss  Fenwick  the  issue  was  not  far  off.  The  ap- 
proach to  it  was  checkered;  but  the  clouds  thickened  more 
and  more  as  each  year  succeeded  of  the  three  that  re- 
mained to  her.  My  mother's  remark  that  "while  she 
could  be  wretched  without  being  low-sjjirited,  Miss  Fen- 
wick could  be  low-spirited  without  being  wretched,"  was 
especially  true  of  this  last  year  of  ]Miss  Fen  wick's  life. 
Even  in  other  years  her  nature,  with  all  its  moral  strength 
and  spiritual  elevation,  was  overrun  by  emotion;  and  her 
religious  reliance,  though  wholly  undisturbed  by  difficulties 
or  doubts,  Avas  impassioned  rather  than  serene.  It  was 
something  I  knew  about  her  which  promjited  four  words 
spoken  by  lolande  in  the  third  act  of  "  St.  Clement's  Eve." 
The  Duke  of  Orleans,  who  had  not  yet  disclosed  to  lolande 
who  he  was,  is  about  to  ask  her  aid  for  his  brother,  whose 
madness  was  to  be  cured  by  a  miracle  which  no  one  but  a 
sinless  virgin  could  perform.     He  begins  by  describing 

his  brother's  condition : 

"  Sorely  his  soul 
Is  wrung  and  tortured  by  tlie  terrible  power 
Of  evil  spirits,  ever  and  anon 
Ke-entering  liis  body  thro'  tiie  gaps 
Of  faltering  faith  and  intermitted  prayer, 
When  struggling  Nature,  wearied  with  the  strife, 
Yields  a  brief  vantage. 

loLANDE.  lie  sliall  have  my  prayers  ; 

'Twill  be  my  sorrow's  solace  when  you're  gone 
To  pray  fur  one  you  love. 


^  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

OiiLKANS.  And  did  you  know 

In  liealtli  iiow  kind  he  is,  liow  good  and  just, 
In  anguisli  how  uiuittcrably  tried, 
You'd  pray  witii  tears. 

loLANDK.  I  never  pray  without.'* 

She  Avas  seriously  ill  in  1853,  but  recovered  sufficiently 
to  come  to  us;  and,  after  a  visit  of  some  months,  she  went 
to  live  -svith  her  niece,  at  Kelston  Knoll,  near  Bath.  In  the 
two  following  years  she  suffered  grievously  at  times  from 
physical  and  nervous  prostration.  Her  inextinguishable 
love  remained;  but  even  that  could  not  lift  her  out  of  the 
deep  distress  into  which  she  fell  at  last.  And  when  she 
died,  in  December,  1856, 1  felt  about  her  as  I,  and  I  think 
she  also,  had  felt  about  Wordsworth  five  or  six  years  be- 
fore— that  life  was  a  burden  from  which  it  w^as  well  she 
should  be  relieved.  I  was  conscious  that  all  hope  of  hap- 
piness for  her  in  this  world  was  at  an  end;  and  I  felt  that 
it  w^as  time  she  should  receive  elsewhere  the  reward  of  a 
life  of  love  and  beneficence  as  neai-ly  divine  as  any  life 
upon  earth  I  have  known  or  heard  of  or  been  capable  of 
conceiving. 


Chapter  IX. 

TROUBLES  OF  THE  NURSERY. -FEAR  MORALIZED.— TREASURE- 
TROVE  AT  SEATON  CAREW.— A  MOTHER'S  CONSOLATIONS 
IN  LOSING  HER  YOUTH.— DOMESTIC  LIFE.- MEDDLINGS  IN 
PUBLIC  MATTERS. 

Anno  Dom.  185G-57.    Anno  ^t.  56-57. 

"While  parents  and  friends  of  the  outgoing  generation 
were  passing  away,  the  incoming  generation  was  spring- 
ing up.  My  eldest  child  (at  that  date  between  eleven  and 
twelve  years  of  age)  was  from  time  to  time  much  shaken 
in  health.  Sydney  Smith  has  said  that,  taking  account  of 
the  uncertainties  of  life  in  children,  the  life  of  a  parent  is 
like  that  of  a  gambler.  In  many  cases  and  at  particular 
times  it  is  so,  and  during  certain  years  it  was  so  to  me; 
and  of  course  what  was  disturbing  to  the  father  was  not 
less  so  to  the  mother,  though  she,  with  whatever  agonies 
of  anxiety,  had  more  strength  of  heart  than  I,  and  more 
of  natural  elasticity  as  well  as  spiritual  support. 

Miss  Fenwick  used  to  regard  "living  in  the  spirit  of 
fear"  as  what  was  much  to  be  condemned,  or  at  least 
much  to  be  deprecated.     Wordsworth  speaks  of — 

"  Hope  the  paramount  duty  that  God  lays 
For  his  own  glory  on  man's  suffering  heart," 
and  I  have  myself  spoken  somewhere  in  my  essays  (and 
more  fully  in  a  letter  which  I  shall  quote  presently)  of 
fear  as  a  greater  evil  in  life  than  danger,  and  one  which  is 
more  of  man's  making.  But  if  it  be  wrong  to  live  in  a 
spirit  of  fear,  and  if  hope  be  a  duty,  I  did  not  find  that  to  be 
told  so  made  me  anything  else  but  what  nature  had  made 

II.— 5 


98  Aut6biogra]}hy  of  Ilenry  Taylor. 

nic,  or  time  "working  upon  nature — not  very  innately  buoy- 
ant, and,  as  years  went  on,  a  good  deal  depressed  by  a  low 
state  of  health;  and  to  admonitions  of  this  tenor  I  was  dis- 
posed to  answer  with  "  The  Solitary  "  in  "  The  Excursion," 

"Alas!  such  wisdom  bids  a  creature  fly 
Wliose  very  sorrow  is  tliat  Time  lias  shorn 
His  natural  wings." 

Looking  back  now,  although  I  have  had  many  gifts  and 
joys  to  be  thankful  for  since,  I  feel  that  the  choice  at  one 
time,  if  to  be  determined  by  eligibility  on  earthly  grounds, 
might  well  have  been  to  die  rather  than  encounter  the 
troubles  and  anxieties  and  griefs  of  parental  life,  and  this 
even  with  physical  evil  only  as  the  source  of  the  parent's 
sorrows  and  fears. 

In  March,  1856, 1  wrote  to  Miss  Fenwick: 
"At  the  beginning  of  the  autumn  I  had  begun  to  think 
that  a  family  of  children  were  to  be  a  perpetual  distress 
for  which  no  happiness  they  could  give  rise  to  could  be  a 
compensation — that  in  their  hands  were  the  dagger  and 
the  bowl,  and  that  the  stabs  of  fear  and  the  poison  of 
anxiety  made  up  the  portion  one  was  to  have  in  them;  but 
I  am  less  desponding  now,  and  if  a  little  more  space  and 
respite  be  granted,  I  trust  I  shall  be  able  to  look  my  children 
in  the  face  with  a  healthier  feeling.  As  they  grow  older 
we  may  reasonably  expect  that  their  bodies  will  give  us 
less  of  solicitudes  and  cares.  How  it  may  be  with  their 
minds  is  another  question;  and  if  not  well,  I  suppose  it 
will  be  in  a  great  measure  our  fault,  and  that  compunction 
should  be  superadded  to  pain.  But  these  are  evil  specu- 
lations which  may  as  well  be  postponed  for  the  present;  for, 
as  things  are,  I  have  reason  to  be  content  both  with  the 
little  bodies  and  the  little  minds." 

A  year  or  two  after  I  moralized  the  time  in  a  letter 
to  Mrs.  Prescott : 


Fear  Moralized.  99 

"It  has  been  an  uneventful  six  weeks  here  and  rather 
too  eventful  elsewhere;  and  the  lesson  one  has  to  learn 
from  it  is,  that  in  a  world  of  uncertainties  that  particular 
uncertainty  which  we  are  taking  account  of  is  very  likely 
less  deserving  of  notice  than  half  a  dozen  or  half  a  hundred 
others  which  do  not  rise  up  before  us,  or  only  rise  half  up, 
like  Cavalcante  (is  it  not?)  from  his  tomb  in  the  Inferno. 
If  anything  could  teach  us  not  to  be 

'over  exquisite 
To  cast  tlie  fiashion  of  uncertain  evils,' 

it  is  seeing  how  one  phantom  of  evil  succeeds  another  in 
one's  life,  and  how  monstrous  a  proportion  the  phantoms 
bear  to  the  realities,  or  would  bear  to  them  if  we  did  not, 
by  our  fears,  make  unreal  evils  into  real.  Our  joy  in  the 
present  is  quenched  a  hundred  times  by  fears  for  once  that 
it  is  quenched  by  facts;  and  Sydney  Smith  spoke  a  wise 
word  when  he  advised  us  to  take  '  short  views  of  life.' 
Best,  no  doubt,  if  over  the  short  view  we  can  take  a  long 
view  in  another  sense  and  of  a  second  distance." 

The  fears  and  v;ncertainties  of  those  years  were  many  of 
them  groundless ;  and  those  that  were  not  might  have  been 
postponed  to  a  later  time.  Four  children  remain  to  me 
while  I  write;  the  most  gifted  is  gone;  but  of  each  and  all 
I  may  say  that  so  far  as  the  evil  speculations  glanced  at 
twenty  years  ago  had  reference  to  their  hearts  and  minds 
and  moral  natures,  those  speculations  have  proved  utterly 
and  distinctly  superfluous.  I  suppose  it  would  be  unbe- 
coming in  me  to  say  more. 

In  the  August  following  some  of  the  little  bodies  were 
again  a  subject  of  anxiety.  I  had  to  seek  a  solace  in  the 
contemplation  of  my  conjugal  relations  for  what  was  try- 
ing in  the  parental ;  and  I  was  led  to  write  of  the  former 
with  a  complacency  of  which  I  am  not  ashamed,  whether  I 
ought  to  be  or  not: 


100  Axdobiofjraphy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

"  I  am  alone  and  of  necessity  without  news,  and  of  equal 
necessity  rather  sad  and  tender  in  spirits;  but  I  hope  the 
two  days'  account  of  to-morrow  morning  will  be  twice  as 
good  as  to-day's  would  have  been  could  I  have  received 
it.  ...  I  have  been  reading  the  life  of  Goethe,  and  think- 
ing how  he  missed  the  romance  of  life,  and  what  wretched 
worlc  he  made  of  it;  and  then  I  thought  of  my  own;  and 
though  too  sad  to  be  presumptuous,  I  found  a  consolation 
in  the  feeling  that  I  had  known  better  how  to  keep  some 
of  the  i^octry  of  life  for  my  latter  days,  and  that  on  the 
verge  of  fifty-six  there  is  as  much  charm  extant  for  me  in 
my  Frederika  as  that  shallow-hearted  sentimentalist  threw 
away  in  his.  How  it  might  have  been  with  me  if  our 
beginnings  had  been  when  I  was  twenty-two  instead  of 
thirty-four,  I  know  not;  but  I  think  not  as  it  was  with 
Goethe." 

In  what  follows  there  is  an  allusion  to  an  acquaintance 
we  had  made  the  year  before  at  a  small  seaside  village, 
called  Seaton  Carew,  on  the  coast  of  Durham.  People  who 
have  had  too  much  of  London  society  in  the  season  betake 
themselves  to  remote  watering-places  for  rest  and  seclusion. 
It  was  long  since  we  had  experienced  any  exhaustion  from 
gayeties;  and,  for  my  part,  whether  socially  satiated  or 
socially  starved,  the  desire  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  my 
fellow-creatures  has  never  been  strong  in  me,  except  in  my 
youth  and  under  some  poetic  or  dramatic  seductions.  We 
took  the  children  every  summer  to  some  seaside  for  the 
benefit  of  their  health;  and  my  way  was  not  to  seclude 
myself,  but  to  observe  the  groups  on  the  beach,  pick  out 
the  group  which  wore  an  attractive  appearance,  and  creep 
through  the  shingle  into  its  acquaintance — using  the  chil- 
dren, perhaps,  as  a  medium.  The  beach  at  Seaton  Carew 
was  scantily  provided ;  but  there  was  one  group  which  looked 
singularly  prepossessing — two  young  ladies  of  about  seven- 


Seaton  Carew^     '    *  •  '    '  loi 

teen  years  of  age,  one  slightly  formed,  witli  a'laptjing'aild' 
undulating  sort  of  grace  in  licr  movements,  the  other 
graceful  too,  but  with  movements  more  swift  and  abrupt. 
This  was  a  treasure-trove,  and  we  called  them  Flotsam  and 
Jetsam,  and  were  not  long  in  making  their  acquaintance. 
They  were  twins,  and  Jetsam  claimed  to  be  the  elder  born 
of  the  pair  and  ahvays  called  the  other  "  this  child."  This 
child,  on  the  other  hand,  maintained  that  the  nurse  had 
"  mixed  "  them  shortly  after  their  birth,  and  it  was  quite 
uncertain  which  was  born  first.  It  is  to  this  couple  that 
the  remainder  of  the  letter  alludes  :  "  Then  I  turned  in  my 
mind  the  remark  of  Goethe's  biographer,  that  Frederika's 
charm  may  have  depended  on  situation,  and  that  the  girl 
Avho  seemed  a  wood-nymph  at  Sesenheim  may  have  looked 
in  society  at  Strasburg  like  a  rustic  out  of  place;  and  I 
began  to  wonder  whether  the  charm  of  our  twins  at  Seaton 
Carew  depended  in  some  more  or  less  measure  on  the  rocks 
and  sands,  and  how  it  would  bear  transplantation.  I  think 
it  will,  and  that  much  of  it  at  least  is  more  than  inci- 
dental." 

It  is  many  years  since  Flotsam  and  Jetsam  have  crossed 
my  path;  but,  looking  back  now  and  then,  I  seem  to  see 
them,  at  Seaton  Carew,  half  sitting,  half  lying,  on  the 
beach,  as  if  they  had  been  thrown  upon  it. 

In  the  summer  of  1857  the  children  were  in  their  better 
health  again;  and,  writing  to  Alice  on  the  day  after  she 
had  entered  upon  her  fortieth  year  (3d  June),  I  could  ap- 
peal to  them  as  a  consolation  and  indemnity  for  the  loss 
of  her  youth — a  consolation  I  could  well  feel  to  be  need- 
ed; for  I  myself,  in  my  day,  had  lamented  the  departure 
of  youth  more  than  I  should  imagine  to  be  common  with 
men  who  are  not  altogether  unmanly;  and  we  all  know 
that  a  woman's  loss  of  youth  is  twice  the  loss  suffered  by 
a  man. 


•10&  Auiobiogr-a^hy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

T  "ha'd  spent  her  birtlulay  with  her  and  the  children  at 
St.  Leonard's-on-Sea,  and  I  wrote  to  her  from  London  on 
the  day  following: 

"  I  made  my  journey  comfortably  enough,  though  some- 
what sadly;  partly,  perhaps,  from  leaving  you,  but  more 
from  the  sadness  I  had  left  with  you;  and  I  was  disposed 
to  ask  myself  why  a  birthday  after  eight -and -twenty 
should  be  esteemed  a  festal  day  for  any  one.  To  me,  in- 
deed, anniversary  days  have  no  particular  significance. 
One  day  certifieth  another  of  the  lapse  of  time,  and  one 
as  much  as  another;  and  if  it  were  not  for  other  people's 
ways  and  feelings  I  should  not,  in  my  own,  take  any  dis- 
tinction of  days;  but  the  custom  of  making  up  accounts 
of  time  at  anniversaries  almost  forces  upon  one  at  such 
periods  a  sadder  sense  of  the  time  that  is  gone.  There 
are  few  people  to  whom  the  passing  away  of  youth  and 
beauty  brings  more  mournful  feelings  in  my  mournful 
moods  than  to  me;  and  in  such  moods  the  passing  away 
of  your  beauty  and  youth  is  infinitely  sad.  I  do  not  com- 
fort myself  at  such  times  by  persuading  myself  that  you 
are  as  beautiful  as  ever.  I  think  you  are  so  at  times,  but 
I  do  not  find  comfort  in  the  thought;  because,  even  if  it 
be  not  a  delusion,  the  clinging  to  that  belief  would  be 
no  more  than  getting  up  the  mast  when  the  ship  is  sink- 
ing. The  only  real  comfort  to  bo  found  is  in  clinging  to 
what  is  less  perishable;  and  who  has  more  than  you  of 
what  time  does  not  take  away  ?  As  to  youth,  in  one's 
very  prime  one  knows  that  it  is  preparing  to  depart;  and 
there  is  as  much  sadness,  if  one  is  given  to  sadness,  in  the 
possession  as  in  the  loss  of  it ;  and  I  never  w^as  so  sad 
about  it  as  when  I  was  eight-and-twenty  and  thereabouts: 

'  I  could  not  elioose 
But  weep  to  liave  what  I  so  feared  to  lose  ;' 

and  when  I  came  to  have  little  to  lose,  and  the  loss  of  that 


Consolation  for  Loss  of  Youth.  103 

little  was  more  surely  at  hand,  I  was  ranch  less  troubled 
in  that  way.  And  so  it  will  be  with  you  by  and  by;  and 
you  will  find  that  the  attaching,  and  even  the  attracting, 
powers  and  endowments  will  not  suffer  any  early  decay, 
and  that  you  will  probably  have  them  as  long  as  you  want 
them,  and  until  the  interests  belonging  to  them  shall  have 
been  supplanted  by  other  interests  growing  from  a  deeper 
root.  Think  of  dear  Lady  Harriet,  and  of  all  the  powers 
that,  in  her  instance,  seemed  to  gather  strength  rather 
than  suffer  decline  in  that  decade  of  her  life  into  which 
your  life  is  now  passing.  And  think,  also,  of  Avhat  you 
have  that  she  had  not,  to  come  in  their  place  should  they 
fail.  For  if  the  bearing  of  children,  and  the  cares  and 
anxieties  they  give  rise  to,  do  something  to  shorten  the 
mother's  youth,  still  may  it  be  said  that  '  the  dew  of  their 
birth  is  of  the  womb  of  the  morning;'  for  what  greater 
difference  is  there  between  youth  and  age  than  the  differ- 
ence between  a  woman  with  children  and  a  woman  with- 
out ?  And  the  freshness  which  is  brought  over  a  woman's 
life  by  children  is  one  which  she  may  reasonably  hope 
will  last  till  the  end  of  it;  and  even  when  her  children  are 
no  longer  children  it  is  often  renewed  to  her,  like  a  dew  of 
the  evening,  by  her  children's  children.  So  think  of  the 
tears  that  fell  in  those  five  years  of  your  first  youth  when 
you  were  mourning  its  barrenness,  and  would  gladly  have 
given  all  its  brightness  and  freshness  and  charm  and  beau- 
ty in  exchange  for  a  child;  and,  as  I  well  recollect  your 
telling  me,  you  would  have  accounted  it  a  taking  away  of 
your  curse  even  if  one  single  sickly  child  had  been  born 

to  you,  that, 

'  being  born,  did  lie 
In  his  sad  nurse's  arms  an  hour  or  two  and  die.' 

Think  of  those  past  times  and  feelings,  and  do  not  think 
that  you  have  fallen  upon  evil  days  now — now,  when  you 


104  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

have  the  so-longed-for  children  and  a  husband  "whose  love 
has  been  deepened  by  all  the  changes  and  chances  of  the 
days  that  have  come  and  gone  since  then." 

What  my  official  labors  amounted  to  in  these  years  I 
know  not.  Not  much,  I  should  think,  for,  in  1856, 1  seem 
to  have  taken  a  part,  which  it  did  not  necessarily  belong 
to  me  to  take,  in  a  dispute  between  our  government  and 
that  of  the  United  States: 

"I  did  not  put  myself  forward  in  that  Central  Ameri- 
can question,  as  I  seldom  do  upon  any  public  question 
which  is  in  the  hands  of  others;  but  I  have  felt  for  some 
months  that  it  had  become  very  voluminous  and  compli- 
cated, and  was  likely  to  get  beyond  the  competency  of 
any  man  who  had  not  a  great  deal  of  quiet  time  to  give 
to  it;  and  I  Jiave  given  a  great  deal  of  time  to  it,  in  view 
of  the  possibility  that  I  might  be  called  upon  sooner  or 
later  to  act  in  it;  and  I  had  not  been  two  days  in  London 
before  the  call  came." 

I  have  forgotten  all  about  the  question  now;  but  it  ap- 
pears that,  after  some  conferences  with  Lord  Clarendon, 
then  foreign  secretary,  and  Mr.  Labouchere,  colonial  sec- 
retary, I  considered  that  I  had  "  succeeded  in  giving  the 
negotiations  a  turn  which,  as  far  as  I  could  judge,  would 
materially  affect  our  future  relations  with  the  United 
States." 

In  1855  the  inquiries  conducted  by  Sir  Charles  Trevel- 
yan  and  Sir  Stafford  Northcote  into  the  manner  in  which 
appointments  were  made  to  the  civil  service,  and  their  re- 
port in  favor  of  competitive  examination,  led  me  to  write 
a  letter  to  Lord  Granville,  suggesting  that,  Avhile  nomina- 
tion should  be  combined  with  competition,  there  should 
be  a  competition  between  patrons  as  well  as  between  can- 
didates. I  wrote  on  the  subject  to  the  public  men  I  knew 
who  were  most  likely  to  take  an  interest  in  it.     The  de- 


Meddlings  in  Public  Matter's.  105 

gree  of  interest  wbicb  icas  taken  is  indicated  in  a  letter  I 
wrote  to  Sir  Arthur  Helps,  thanking  him  for  a  M'ork  he 
had  sent  me,  in  which  he  had  treated  of  civil  organiza- 
tion: 

"As  individuals  become  less  pre-eminent  organization 
becomes  more  important,  because  things  are  done  by  plu- 
ral operation.  Twice  within  the  last  few  years  I  have 
conceived  that  I  had  conceived  a  conception  which  might 
strike  root  downwards  and  bea,r  fruit  upwards.  On  each 
occasion  I  wrote  to  the  minister  charged  with  the  depart- 
ment, and  explained  and  advocated  my  project.  On  one 
of  the  two  occasions  I  wrote  to  half  a  dozen  ministers  and 
ex-ministers.  With  all  these  gentlemen  I  was  more  or  less 
personally  acquainted,  and  most  of  them  seemed  to  regard 
my  projects  as  worthy  of  consideration — and  there  was  an 
end  of  them.  The  projects  lie  at  the  bottom  of  one  of  my 
green  boxes.  I  said  to  myself,  by  what  organization,  in 
these  days,  can  things  worthy  to  be  considered  get  them- 
selves considered  to  some  practical  purpose  ?  I  had  some 
glimmering  of  the  answer,  but  I  knew  myself  to  be  desti- 
tute of  the  organizing  faculties  and  energies  which  are  in- 
disjiensable  to  the  work.  There  are  two  attributes  of 
statesmen  which  are  to  be  borne  in  mind.    Brutus  says  of 

Cicero: 

'He'll  never  follow  anything 
Which  other  men  begin.' 

This  points  to  one  of  the  difficulties  which  a  mere  pro- 
jector has  to  encounter.  Most  statesmen  are  Ciceronian 
in  this  respect,  and  the  instinct  of  incubation  is  to  hatch 
their  own  eggs,  and  not  those  of  another.  If  this  is  one 
instinct  that  we  have  to  look  to,  another  is  self-preserva- 
tion. A  statesman  will  sit  upon  another  man's  eggs  if  he 
foresees  the  alternative  of  being  put  in  the  pillory  and 
pelted  with  them.  If  I  had  had  £10,000  to  spare,  and 
II.— 5* 


108  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

could  have  commaiulcd  the  services  of  men  having  the 
faculties  and  energies  which  I  have  not,  I  should  have 
said  to  such  men,  '  Take  my  projects,  "write  about  them  in 
twenty  newspapers,  send  out  circulars,  assemble  meetings, 
give  dinners,*  canvass  members  of  Parliament,  get  mo- 
tions made,  and,  if  the  2)rojects  are  intrinsically  good,  see 
whether  the  minister  will  not  consider  them,  instead  of 
considering  them  worthy  of  consideration.'  In  this  coun- 
try nothing  seems  so  useless  and  nugatory  as  what  is  called 
'  throwing  out  a  suggestion.'  Excellent  suggestions  are 
flying  and  fluttering  about  in  all  directions,  like  so  many 
moths  and  butterflies,  and  boys  throw  their  hats  at  them; 
but  if  they  are  only  intended  for  the  welfare  of  mankind 
they  might  as  well  never  be  born.  Can  any  organization 
be  devised  by  which  they  may  be  turned  to  account?  I 
fear  not;  because  nothing  except  the  material  interests  of 
classes  seems  capable  of  producing  unity  of  opinion  and 
harmony  in  co-operation." 

*  I  recollect  one  of  our  political  under  secretaries  showing  me,  with  a 
smile,  the  concluding  words  of  a  letter  from  a  man  in  the  City,  soliciting 
his  support  of  a  projected  bill:  "There  will  be  a  dinner  upon  the  pream- 
ble." 


Chapter  X. 

SOCIAL  LIFE.— AT  THE  GRANGE.— BISHOP  WILBERFORCE  AND 
OTHERS.  —  LIGHT  AND  SHADE.— A  SPECTRE  COMES  TO  A 
DINNER. 

Anno  Dom.  1856-57.     Anno  ^t.  5G-57. 

Social  life  makes  some  part  of  every  man's  life.  It 
has  made  a  small  part  of  mine;  not  from  any  want  of  dis- 
position to  make  it  larger,  but  from  circumstances  and 
weakness  of  health. 

Stephen  Spring  Rice  said  of  me  that  I  liked  any  woman 
better  than  any  man;  and  at  one  time  of  my  life  this, 
though,  of  course,  an  exaggeration,  did  indicate  a  truth. 
Twelve  years  ago  I  put  into  verse  a  signal  example — most 
people  will  think  it  not  more  signal  than  shameful — of  the 
truth  so  indicated.  In  April,  1864,  I  met,  for  the  fii'st 
and  only  time,  on  a  visit  to  Alfred  Tennyson  at  Farring- 
ford,  a  man  *  wliose  renown,  in  a  different  kind,  was  not 
less  rightfully  his  due  than  Alfred's  own.  And  it  appears 
from  the  poem  that  I  was  more  occupied  with  the  charms 
of  a  beautiful  girl  who  was  there  than  with  either  of  the 
two  great  men: 

"  Something  betwixt  a  pasture  and  a  park, 

Saved  from  sea-breezes  by  a  hump  of  down, 
Tossed  blue-bells  in  the  foce  of  April,  dark 
With  fitful  frown. 

*'  And  there  was  he,  that  gentle  hero,  who, 
By  virtue  and  the  strength  of  his  right  ann 

■"■  Garibaldi. 


108  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

Dethroned  an  unjust  king,  and  then  witlidrcw 
To  tend  his  farm. 

"To  whom  came  foi'tli  a  mighty  man  of  song, 

Wliose  deep-mouth'd  music  rolls  thro'  all  the  land, 
Voices  of  many  rivers,  rich  or  strong, 
Or  sweet  or  grand. 

"  I  turned  from  bard  and  patriot,  like  some  churl, 
Senseless  to  powers  that  hold  the  world  in  fee — 
How  is  it  that  the  face  of  one  fair  girl 
Is  more  to  me  ?" 

Alice  has  always  been  equally  witli  myself  subject  to 
captivation  by  girls  and  women ;  but  in  some  cases  she  re- 
garded my  predilections  as  unfastidious.  In  a  letter  to 
Mrs.  E.  Villiers,  written  when  her  twin  daughters  were 
staying  with  us  at  East  Sheen  (5th  October,  18G0),  I  had 
something  to  say  about  fastidiousness: 

"  It  was  a  maxim  of  Miss  FenAvick's  that  a  fastidious 
taste  is  not  a  good  taste.  In  truth,  whatever  there  may 
be  supposed  to  be  of  refinement  in  it,  it  is  a  poor  and 
measrre  taste.  To  be  able  to  make  small  account  of  small 
or  superficial  blemishes  and  of  defects  of  manner  not  arising 
out  of  evil  dispositions,  and  to  like  or  admire — not  blindly, 
of  course,  but  largely  and  genially — whatever  humanity 
presents  of  what  is  likable  or  admirable,  is  the  gift  of  a 
good  taste,  being  also  the  gift  of  a  kindly  and  liberal 
spirit;  and  Edward  had  no  fastidiousness  that  would  have 
interfered  for  a  moment  with  this;  and,  indeed,  he  had  a 
special  repugnance  to  all  illiberal  fastidiousness,  and  cor^ 
dially  despised  it.  I  see  a  great  deal  of  it  in  young  ladies 
whom  I  meet  with  here  and  there,  but  nothing  of  it  in  the 
twins.  On  the  contrary,  I  observe  that  if  they  have  noth- 
ing kind  to  say  of  any  one,  they  say  nothing.  And  they 
have  a  good  notion  of  social  duties,  and  that  best  (as  be- 
ing the  most  benevolent)  good-breeding  which,  without  re- 


Fastidiousness.  109 

gard  to  personal  preferences,  deals  to  all  in  general  society 
an  equal,  or  at  least  a  fair,  measure  of  social  attentions. 
Elsewhere  than  in  general  society  there  is  fair  play  for  per- 
sonal preferences;  and  it  would  be  very  stupid  and  unin- 
teresting of  them  were  they  to  show  none.  For  the  rest, 
they  are  gentle,  tender,  and  affectionate,  and  in  matters 
of  outward  manner  and  demeanor  they  have  all  their  fa- 
ther's felicity  and  grace,  which  is  about  as  much  as  human 
nature  is  capable  of." 

Miss  Fenwick's  teaching  was  not,  I  think,  lost  upon  me. 
In  my  commerce  with  society  during  my  middle  and  eld- 
erly age,  if  not  before,  I  was  observant,  and  my  letters 
abound  in  personal  descriptions;  but  I  think  I  may  say 
they  contain  little  or  no  alloy  of  fastidiousness.  I  most 
liked  to  describe  persons  in  whom  I  had  found  something 
to  admire,  or,  if  not  that,  something  distinctively  indi- 
vidual which  was  not  disagreeable. 

The  absence  of  fastidiousness  made  me  harmless  in 
society,  but  there  was  nothing  that  I  know  of  to  make  me 
agreeable.  My  mind  had  nothing  of  the  "  touch-and-go  " 
movement  which  can  alone  enable  a  man  to  take  a  pleasant 
part  in  light  and  general  conversation.  As  to  wit,  I  can  in- 
vent it  in  my  study  and  make  it  spirt  from  the  mouth  of 
a  dramatis  persona;  but  elsewhere  I  have  no  power  of 
producing  it  with  any  but  an  infelicitous  effect.  Alice 
once  observed,  not  without  reason,  that  my  jokes  required 
to  be  carefully  considered  by  some  competent  person  in 
order  to  be  understood.  Before  my  marriage  it  was  seldom 
that  I  saw  more  of  society  than  the  glittering  surface  to 
be  seen  in  London.  I  cannot  recollect  that  while  single  I 
ever  paid  visits  to  more  than  three  or  four  country-houses, 
two  of  which  were  in  the  same  connection — Ravens  worth 
Castle,  the  seat  of  Lord  Ravensworth  and  Becket,  the  seat 
of  Lord  Barrington,  who  had  married  his  daughter.     Of 


110  Aidobiograjyhy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

the  former  I  recollect  little  except  the  face  of  the  young- 
est daughter  of  the  house,  now  Lady  Bloomfield,  in  the 
brightness  of  its  dawn  ;  of  the  latter,  little  except  the 
voices  in  song  of  her  two  sisters.  Lady  Williamson  and 
Lady  Barrington,  of  whom  I  wrote  at  the  time,  that  there 
had  hccn  no  such  singing  since  "  the  morning  stars  sang 
together  and  all  the  sons  of  God  shouted  for  joy." 

After  my  marriage  the  only  country  -  house  we  fre- 
quented where  much  of  society  was  to  be  seen  was  "  The 
Grange,"  in  Hampshire,  the  seat  of  Lord  and  Lady  Ash- 
burton.  My  wife  could  not  make  up  her  mind  to  go  any- 
where Avithout  her  children,  and  we  were  welcome  to  the 
Ashburtons  with  all  our  encumbrances.  Two  or  tliree  of 
my  letters  from  the  Grange  will  suffice  to  represent  the 
social  life  to  be  seen  there. 

At  the  end  of  1853  the  party  included  a  number  of 
public  men,  or  men  who  were  shortly  to  become  public 
men,  with  the  wives  of  those  who  had  any — Robert  Lowe 
and  his  wife,  Lord  Carnarvon  (in  his  first  youth),  Lord 
and  Lady  Canning,  Frank  and  Lady  Anne  Charteris,  now 
(187G)  Lord  and  Lady  Elcho,  and  Wilberforce,  Bishop 
of  Oxford.  Of  the  last  I  wrote  in  a  letter  to  Miss  Fen- 
wick  : 

"  The  bishop  seems  to  be  compounded  of  many  simples 
— full  of  fire  and  impulse,  yet  perfect  in  social  tact;  full 
of  drollery,  but  governed  by  a  competent  measure  of  dis- 
cretion; bright,  sharp,  and  subtile,  ready  and  graceful  and 
full  of  resource  in  conversation;  with  a  cordiality  of  man- 
ner which  is  very  true  to  his  nature,  I  dare  say,  though  it 
might  lead  to  a  mistake  if  it  were  understood  as  express- 
ing more  than  mere  sociable  cordiality.  I  can  easily  sup- 
pose, however,  that  there  are  depths  in  his  nature,  and 
that  there  may  be  some  genuine  and  powerful  feelings  and 
affections  dwelling  in  them." 


The  Grange.  Ill 

In  1855  we  met  some  of  the  same  people  again,  and 
many  more;  and  I  gave  an  account  of  them  in  a  letter  to 
Aubrey  de  Yere,  begun  at  East  Sheen  in  December,  1854, 
but  shortly  broken  off,  and  resumed  at  the  Grange  in 
January,  1855.  It  needs  a  few  prefatory  words.  When 
we  were  at  Naples,  in  1843-44,  we  had  escaped  as  fast  as 
possible  from  an  expensive  hotel  to  apartments  kept  by 
an  Englishman  whose  showy  appearance  and  manners 
were  oddly  at  variance  with  indications  of  penury  in  his 
household;  a  young  wife,  for  sufficient  reasons  afraid  to 
be  seen,  and  a  beggarly  old  Italian  woman  for  a  servant, 
whom  he  scolded  in  language  which  he  was  not  aware 
that  we  overheard.  The  letter  begins  with  a  little  look- 
ing back  upon  Naples  before  it  gets  to  the  Grange: 

"East Sheen,  December,  1854. 
"  Was  it  not  about  this  time  ten  years  ago  that  we  were 
leaving  our  accidental  splendors  at  the  Vittoria,  and  you 
were  ranging  up  and  down  the  Chiaja  to  find  us  an  apart- 
ment, till  you  hit  upon  that  singular  couple,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 

,  and  the  'Gran  Bestaccia '  who  waited  upon  them? 

Oh,  what  changes  since  then!  I  almost  wish  I  could  see 
once  more  the  good-looking,  flashy  adventurer,  with  his 
smart  clothes  and  curled  mustaches,  entreating  our  poor 
little  Sarah  to  use  the  hearth-brush  equally  on  both  sides, 
for  fear  it  should  be  worn  out  more  on  one  than  the  other, 
and  his  rather  elegant,  half-starved  wife,  who  lay  in  bed 
for  want  of  clothes  to  put  on — and  of  whom  I  once  or 
twice  caught  a  glimpse  venturing  to  creep  about  a  little 
in  her  night-shift — and  even  the  '  Gran  Bestaccia  '  herself, 
the  dirt  upon  whose  skin  and  rags  seemed  as  old  as  the 
skin  and  rags  themselves.  If  they  would  all  three  walk 
into  this  room  at  this  moment,  I  should  be  glad  to  see 
them,  and  I  would  ask  them  to  sit  down,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 


113  Autobiograjpli])  of  Henry  Taylor. 

on  the  sofa,  and  the  '  Gran  Bcstaccia '  in  the  coal- 


scuttle, which  she  would  naturally  prefer.    Oh,  world!  oh, 
life!  oh,  time!" 

"  Scene  changes  to  the  Grange  in  January,  1855: 
"And  I  wish  you  had  been  there  too;  for  there  were 
some  people  almost  as  well  worth  seeing  as  Mr.  and  Mrs. 

,  and  the  Bestaccia.     Of  the  scientific  and  literary, 

there  were  Dr.  Lyon  Playfair,  easy,  ready,  and  full,  fluent 
in  facts  and  wonders,  with  simple,  cheerful,  honest  man- 
ners and  looks;  Dr.  Carpenter,  grave  and  refined-looking, 
intellectual  and  self-possessed;  on  his  first  arrival  he  had 
been  so  much  alarmed  at  finding  himself  among  a  score 
of  strangers  that  he  had  purposed  to  fly  before  their  faces 
the  next  morning;  but  he  soon  found  he  was  liked,  and 
took  heart  of  grace  to  stay  three  or  four  days;  Professor 
Vaughan,  very  agreeable  and  gentlemanly;  Dr.  Linley,  a 
quiet,  complacent,  sociable,  benevolent,  intelligent,  loqua- 
cious, Scotch  -  looking,  Scotch -mannered  old  botanist — 
whether  really  Scotch  or  not  I  don't  know;  he  had  no  ac-  ■ 
cent;  IMr,  Thompson,  an  Oxford  tutor,  simple,  solid,  good, 
capable,  and  pleasing ;  Mr.  Jowett,  another,  nervous  and 
still — deeply  learned,  they  say — a  silent  reservoir  with  a 
gleam;  Tom  Taylor,  clever,  vigorous,  rough,  and  smooth; 
Venables,  grave,  melancholy,  simple,  true,  easy  in  dis- 
course, rich  in  knowledge  never  displayed  though  always 
at  hand;  feelings  left  to  be  guessed  at,  but  I  should  think 
deep  and  delicate;  very  much  the  master  of  himself  and 
of  his  very  considerable  faculties  and  gifts.  These  were 
the  men  of  science  and  letters.  Then  comes  a  good-hu- 
mored-looking Captain  and  Mrs.  Baring;  an  Alick  Baring; 
a  Mr.  Beach;  a  Lord  Giffard — pleasant  but  sanguinary, 
for  he  had  killed  sixty-five  tigers,  eleven  elephants,  and  a 
multitude  of  bears;  a  Mr.  GoAvan,  fulfilled  of  all  knowl- 
edge, as  it  is  said — whose  walk  into  the  room  was  as  if  he 


Tlie  Grange.  113 

had  the  knowledge  in  a  bowl  between  both  hands  and  was 
afraid  of  spilling  it;  or  like  the  walk  of  a  man  who  knows 
that  he  is  always  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice;  or  like  the 
walk  of  a  monthly  nurse  in  a  darkened  room,  who  knows 
not  what  she  may  knock  against  next — only  he  seemed  to 
be  himself  the  object  of  his  own  nursing;  he  said  nothing 
(except  a  few  words  once  a  day  to  make  silence  audible 
and  to  assure  us  that  he  was  not  the^Aos^  of  a  nurse),  and 
he  expected  nothing  and  was  in  nobody's  way;  and  at  the 
end  of  his  visit  his  servant  wrapped  him  carefully  up  and 
put  him  into  a  fly  to  be  taken  away.  He  probably  left  no 
impression  on  many  of  us  ;  but  on  me  he  left  rather  a 
peculiar  impression — of  a  noiseless  and  passionless  exist- 
ence; a  human  being  who  gave  nothing,  asked  nothing, 
said  nothing,  did  nothing,  felt  nothing,  and  was  perfectly 
contented  with  himself  and  everybody  else  ;  how  cau- 
tiously he  sat  down!  '  weighing  his  spread  vans,'  w^hile  the 
nether  part  gradually  lowered  itself  to  within  flumping 
distance  and  then  flumped;  Lord  de  Mauley,  cultivated, 
refined  and  distinguished-looking — and  he  might  have  been 
agreeable,  but  his  favorite  son  is  in  the  Crimea,  and  he 
looked  as  if  the  waters  of  the  Black  Sea  had  gone  over  his 
soul.  Next  are  the  politicians,  but  they  are  not  many: 
Lord  Grey,  Edward  Ellice,  and  Mr.  Lowe.  Lord  Grey, 
vehement,  strong,  honest,  open,  clear  of  head  and  clear  of 
purpose — the  man  of  all  others  who  is  wanted  at  this  mo- 
ment for  war  minister,  the  making  of  whom  so  unpopular 
as  to  be  unavailable  is  one  of  the  deepest  injuries  which 
the  press  has  inflicted  on  the  public  service;  Edward  Ell- 
ice, shrewd,  kind,  copious  of  speech,  w^ith  a  genuine  hon- 
Jiommie  and  a  rough  courtesy;  Mr.  Lowe,  a  little  super- 
cilious, but  like  a  gentleman  in  his  looks  and  ways,  and 
nothing  against  him  that  I  know  of  except  his  connection 
with  the  press  and  his  large  share  in  the  aforesaid  injury 


114  Auidbiograjphy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

to  the  public  service  by  anonymous  vilifying  of  Lord  Grey 
—(of  course  the  one  went  away  before  the  other  came). 
Next  are  the  men  about  town  (God  forgive  them  for  be- 
ing about  nothing  better,  and  God  forgive  many  of  us  for 
being  about  something  Avorse!)— Lord  Elcho,  Fleming,  Mr. 
Ilibbert,  and  Mr.  Henry  Corry  :  Elcho,  clever,  light, 
graceful,  gay — with  ease  and  pleasure  in  every  tone  of  his 
voice  and  every  movement  of  his  body;  a  man  of  pleasure 
whom  it  is  a  pleasure  to  see;  but  how  will  he  grow  old  ?  is 
a  question  which  one  cannot  help  asking  one's  self  at  my 
time  of  life;  Fleming,  a  purling  brook;  Ilibbert,  an  ugly, 
homely,  kindly,  comfortable  old  bachelor,  who  cultivates 
the  art  of  dining-out  and  has  the  necessary  knowledge; 
Henry  Corry,  a  rather  crazy,  rather  pleasant,  wild  young 
fellow  of  fifty — writing  vers  de  societe  and  reading  them 
to  the  ladies  half  the  day;  with  a  vein  of  L-ish  drollery 
and  two  veins  of  Irish  impudence — gentlemanly  enough  to 
afford  to  do  things  which  a  man  with  less  advantages  of- 
manner  would  not  be  able  to  carry  off ; ,  a  with- 
ered beau  with  a  young  manner  and  an  old  face;  frivo- 
lous, but  gentlemanly.  Next  are  the  artists,  and  they 
were  but  three:  Westmacott,  the  sculptor,  Avho  is  more 
like  a  man  of  the  world  than  like  an  artist;  Doyle,  the 
caricaturist— a  gentle,  modest,  ugly,  interesting  person; 
and  Wesley,  the  doctor  of  music;  but  there  was  no  'music 
breathing  from  his  face.'  Two  men  remain  unclassified: 
an  American — very  gentlemanly  and  looking  like  any 
foreigner  you  please  except  an  American;  and  Brookfield, 
whom  you  know — a  man  of  many  moods,  and  yet  perhaps 
the  most  invariably  agreeable  of  us  all,  and  certainly  the 
most  felicitous  in  adapting  himself  to  every  occasion  and 
every  man,  woman,  and  child,  from  the  old  card-playing 
dowager  to  the  baby  in  arms  and  the  nurse  and  the  nurs- 
ery-maid. 


The  Grange.  115 

"These  and  such  were  the  men.  And  now  to  the 
women  —  no,  not  to  the  women,  or  not  now  ;  I  have 
made  far  too  long  a  muster-roll  already,  and  if  I  were  to 
go  to  the  women,  and 

*If  I  should  tell  the  politic  arts 
To  take  and  keep  men's  hearts ' — 

You  know  what  follows: 

'And  all  the  little  lime-twigs  laid 
By  Macliiavel  tiie  waiting-maid, 

I  more  voluminous  should  grow 
(Chiefly  if  I,  like  them,  should  tell 
All  change  of  weathers  that  befell) 

Than  Ilolinshed  and  Stowe.' 

There  were,  in  all  truth  of  prose,  some  changes  of 
weather  among  the  women  ;  but,  on  the  whole,  though 
beauty  and  goodness  and  happiness  are  not  in  the  habit 
of  '  kissing  each  other,'  like  peace  and  righteousness,  there 
was  as  much  of  those  and  as  much  of  kissing  as  do  com- 
monly come  together.  And  now  we  are  at  home  again 
and  the  children  are  all  well,  and  we  have  agreeable  rec- 
ollections and  agreeable  anticipations  and  present  peace." 
In  a  foi-mer  volume  I  took  a  distinction  between  the 
society  of  Holland  House  and  that  of  Lansdowne  House, 
in  favor  of  the  former  in  respect  of  the  divers  kinds  of 
masculine  material,  of  the  latter  in  respect  of  a  due  inter- 
mixture of  feminine.  These  large  parties  at  the  Grange 
included  all  kinds  of  both  sexes.  AVhen  there  were  many 
at  a  time,  people  fell  into  assorted  groups  by  natural 
selection,  and  whether  there  were  many  or  few  at  a 
time — as  most  of  the  visitors  stayed  only  three  or  four 
days  while  we  stayed  as  many  weeks — we  saw  one  lot  af- 
ter another  come  upon  the  stage,  play  their  parts,  and 
pass  off  ;  and  there  was  unceasing  variety,  whether  by  sub- 
division into  groups,  or  by  ebb  and  flow  and  succession. 


116  Autohiograjyhy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

The  literary  element  was,  I  think,  a  little  younger  than 
that  of  Holland  House.  It  was  certainly  livelier  than 
that  of  Lansdowne  House,  partly  perhaps  by  difference  of 
place  and  partly  by  difference  of  persons.  Lord  Holland 
had  not  quite  left  the  eighteenth  century  behind  him. 
He  preferred  Dryden  to  Shakespeare  and  Crabbe  to 
Wordsworth.  It  is  difficult  to  conceive  that,  even  in 
the  eighteenth  century,  such  estimates  could  have  been 
common  —  though  Wordsworth  used  to  designate  that 
century  as  "the  dark  age" — but  they  did  not  seem  to 
excite  surprise  at  Holland  House.  Crabbe,  I  think,  had 
been  personally  known  there;  but  I  doubt  whether,  in 
that  society,  personal  association  went  for  much  in  the 
estimate  of  values.  On  Crabbe's  death,  Lord  Melbourne 
rubbed  his  hands  and  took  a  view  of  it  which  was  more 
than  consolatory:  "I  am  so  glad  when  one  of  these  fel- 
lows dies,  because  then  one  has  his  works  complete  on 
one's  shelf  and  there  is  an  end  of  him." 

Another  of  my  letters,  glaiicing  at  the  Grange,  but 
nothing  more,  was  addressed  to  a  girl  who  was  then  just 
emerging  from  childhood — Arabella,  daughter  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Prescott,  to  whose  house  in  Rutland  Gate  Stephen 
Spring  Rice  had  been  taken  when  he  broke  a  blood-vessel 
in  Hyde  Park  at  the  Great  Exhibition  in  1851.  The  Pres- 
cotts  had  become  great  friends  of  himself  and  his  family; 
and  through  them  the  friendship  had  penetrated  to  us. 
Arabella  is  now  Mrs.  Prescott  Decie,  living  in  a  house  far 
away  in  the  country,  which  she  seldom  leaves,  and  it  is 
not  often  that  I  see  her.  But  she  is  not  a  person  whom, 
having  once  loved,  one  can  ever  cease  to  love. 

"At  the  Grange,"  I  wrote,  "there  was  a  cloud  of 
savans,  physiologists,  chemists,  mechanists,  historians, 
poets,  artists,  Doctor  this  and  Professor  that;  but  Carlyle 
flashed  through  the  cloud,  and  the  Brookfields  glistened 


The  Grange.  117 

and  gleamed  through  it ;  and  there  was  a  beautiful 
Anglo-Greek,  who  had  condescended  to  marry  the  name 
of  Zoe  to  the  name  of  Thompson,  borne  by  the  provost  of 
Queen's  College,  Oxford;*  and  she  lighted  up  the  black- 
coats  more  or  less,  though  she  was  not  as  vivacious  as  a 
Greek  should  be,  but  rather,  in  a  graceful  way,  quiet  and 
retiring.  Of  one  kind  or  another,  however,  there  was  a 
great  deal  that  was  agreeable  and  interesting  in  the 
party;  and  had  there  been  three  more  elements  in  it — 
youth,  folly,  and  music — there  would  have  been  nothing 
wanting  to  its  charm." 

There  is  one  rather  unhappy  effect  of  a  life  led  in 
society,  if  the  society  be  bright  and  gay — that  it  casts  a 
shadow  over  private  life;  especially  when,  as  in  the  case 
of  Lady  Ashburton,  there  are  no  children  to  light  it  up,  I 
thought  that  at  the  Grange,  when  by  some  accident  there 
was  no  one  there  but  ourselves, 

"  She  had  not  that  alacrity  of  spirit 
And  cheer  of  mind  " 

that  she  was  wont  to  have  when  we  had  been  alone  with 
her  at  Alverstoke  or  Addiscomb  Farm;  and  that  she  was 
rather  subdued  by  the  effect  of  shade  than  rested  or  re- 
freshed by  it — as  kind  as  ever,  but  with  a  difference. 

I  wrote  to  Mrs.  Brookfield  in  March,  1856:  "I  am  not 
sure  that  I  can  say  I  like  the  Grange  best  when  there  is 
no  one  there.  If  I  felt  that  she  liked  it  best  I  think  I 
should.  But  that  is  what  I  don't  feel  in  these  latter  days. 
She  is  by  nature  reserved;  and  I  rather  think  that  a  life 
of  society  is  apt  to  become  a  life  of  reserve.  And  then 
one  is  more  conscious  of  reserve  when  society  is  removed; 
and  in  privacy  unreserve  must  be  a  more  real  and  serious 
thing  —  very  different  from  the  gay  appearances  of  it 

*Now  (1875)  Archbishop  of  York. 


118  Autohiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

which  break  out  in  a  conversational  onHee.  Ho-\vevcr,  I 
am  always  happy  enough  at  the  Grange,  be  it  full  or  be 
it  cnij)ty;  and,  perhaps,  in  the  matter  of  unreserve,  as  of 
other  things,  I  get  as  much  as  I  give.  For  I  am  not  sure 
that  I  have  not  myself  become  more  reserved  of  late  years. 
I  suppose  we  all  do  as  we  become  older  and  wickeder." 

With  Lady  Ashburton's  death  my  social  life  may  be 
said  to  have  come  to  an  end.  On  looking  back  to  it  I 
think  all  that  was  worth  having  in  it  came  to  me  through 
her.  I  made  no  new  friendships  at  the  Grange;  but  I 
valued,  as  well  I  might,  the  unbroken  weeks  of  inter- 
course afforded  to  me  there  with  friends  whom  I  could 
only  see  elsewhere  by  fits  and  starts — Carlyle,  George 
Venables,  and  the  Brookfields.  They  were  friends  of  the 
Ashburtons  in  the  first  degree;  and,  like  ourselves,  they 
were  in  the  habit  of  paying  long  visits  at  the  Grange, 
and  we  saw  them  there  in  a  very  different  way  from  that 
in  which  friends  can  see  each  other  in  London.  At  Lon- 
don dinners  and  assemblies  one  may  make  acquaint- 
ances— as  one  may  in  a  railway  carriage — and  the  ac- 
quaintances made  in  either  may  chance  to  result  in  a 
friendship;  but  the  friendship  must  be  made  and  main- 
tained elsewhere. 

For  two  or  three  years  I  used  to  frequent  large  assem- 
blies at  the  Admiralty  and  at  Lansdowne  House.  Why, 
I  am  at  a  loss  to  imagine,  for  society  can  hardly  be  culti- 
vated in  any  form  less  pleasant  or  less  profitable,  *'  Dis- 
course of  Reason,"  in  any  consecutive  conversation,  can 
hardly  find  a  place  in  them.  One  girl  I  knew.  Miss  Hope 
Richardson — and  I  spoke  of  her  in  a  letter  as  the  only 
girl  I  knew — who  could  be  engaged  in  conversation  on 
subjects  other  than  frivolous  at  a  large  assembly,  and 
really  think  of  what  she  was  saying,  Iler  eyes  did  not 
wander  like  the  eyes  of  others,  and  she  might  have  been 


Social  Intercourse.  119 

sitting  anywhere  else  tlian  in  a  large  assembly — in  a  cave 
on  a  mountain-side,  or 

"  on  the  secret  top 
Of  Oreb  or  of  Sinai." 

And  there  was  another  girl  —  much  admired  for  her 
beauty — whom  I  did  not  know  (Erskine,  I  think,  was  her 
name),  but  whom  I  used  to  see  and  watch  in  those  assem- 
blies, whose  mind,  w^hether  rich  or  poor,  seemed  to  be 
discoursing  with  some  other  region.  Unlike  Miss  Rich- 
ardson, she  scarcely  spoke  to  any  one;  but  to  me  she  pre- 
sented a  still  more  singular  aspect,  for  she  almost  always 
looked  as  if  she  was  alone.  These  were  interesting  anom- 
alies, and  so  anomalous  that  they  brought  into  relief  the 
inane  idleness  of  such  assemblies,  in  their  general  aspect. 
The  Duke  of  Wellington  was  often  to  be  seen  in  them, 
and  I  thought  he  must  use  them  to  vacate  his  mind;  only, 
as  it  is  known  that  he  had  the  gift  of  sleeping  at  will,  it 
was  a  puzzling  question  why  he  did  not  prefer  his  bed. 
So  much  for  large  assemblies. 

At  a  large  dinner,  however,  there  is  no  doubt  more  op- 
portunity than  at  a  large  assembly  for  intercourse  other 
than  volatile  and  artificial,  and  I  hope  I  had  no  grudge 
or  spite  against  London  dinners,  derived  from  my  own 
indifferent  qualifications  for  playing  a  part  at  them.  I 
could  find  pleasure  in  them  though  I  could  give  none,  and 
they  are  good  things  enough  in  their  way.  But  I  have 
felt,  from  time  to  time  and  at  one  or  another  of  them, 
that  natural  sentiments  can  be  strangely  ignored.  Some 
phantom  of  the  past  rises  and  takes  its  seat  at  the  table, 
like  Banquo's  ghost ;  perhaps  "  with  twenty  trenched 
gashes  on  its  head;"  only  one  person  sees  it  or  owns  to 
seeing  it,  or,  if  seeing  it,  cares  to  look  twice;  and  present- 
ly it  vanishes  amid  the  chatter  and  clatter  round  about  it 
and  is  seen  no  more.     Once  and  again  I  have  gone  home 


120  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

from  a  gay  London  dinner-party,  thinking  that  the  past 
was  another  world  as  much  as  the  future,  and  not  less 
dimly  descried,  and  yet  that  the  present  was  the  least 
substantial  of  the  three.  I  wrote  to  Alice  on  one  occa- 
sion: "I  dined  at 's  and  there  I  met  Mrs. , 

ci-devant ,  whom  I  think  I  have  never  seen  but 

once  since  I  saw  her  for  the  purpose  of  promoting  her 
marriage  with  the  man  she  ought  to  have  married.  Noth- 
ing seems  to  make  London  society  more  light  and  empty 
and  unreal  than  these  light  social  meetings  with  persons 
whom  one  has  last  known  in  critical  conjunctures  of  their 
youthful  life — no  more  remembered  now,  or  at  least  not 
otherwise  remembered,  than  the  incidents  of  an  old  novel 
read  twenty  years  ago." 

So  much  for  our  social  life  ending  in  1857.  We  re- 
sumed it  for  a  few  winter  months  in  each  of  three  years 
(1873-4-5),  when  our  children  had  grown  up,  in  order  that 
they  might  have  a  taste  of  it;  and  we  all,  old  and  young, 
found  it  pleasant.  And  there  need  not  be  any  harm  in  it, 
taken  and  enjoyed  in  no  more  than  due  measure,  and  so 
that  it  does  not  supplant  other  and  less  factitious  enjoy- 
ments, or  the  love  of  what,  if  not  jjleasanter,  is  better 
worth.  With  whom  how  much  of  social  amusement 
will  do  this,  may  often  be  a  difficult  question  to  an- 
swer. 

With  children  the  answer  should  not  present  many  diffi- 
culties ;  and  I  think  it  is  only  in  the  last  ten  or  twenty 
years  that  I  have  heard  of  children,  twelve,  ten,  eight 
years  of  age,  criticising  the  entertainments  given  to  them, 
in  language  which  used  to  seem  natural  only  in  worn-out 
men  and  women  of  the  world,  calling  this  dance  tolerable 
and  that  other  a  bore. 

Under  such  social  customs  as  can  convert  children  into 
social  critics,  where  shall  we  find 


Effects  of  Social  Excitement.  121 

"dcliglit  in  little  tilings, 
The  buoyant  child  surviving  in  the  man." 

There  is  no  sucli  survival  even  in  the  child.  And  can 
all  the  world,  with  all  its  wealth  of  pleasures,  afford  an 
equivalent? 

When  I  was  in  Italy  I  remember  being  told  (the  story, 
I  believe,  is  an  old  one)  of  a  child  belonging  to  a  royal 
house  in  that  country,  upon  whom  all  sorts  of  costly  and 
magnificent  toj's  were  showered  by  courtiers  and  friends. 
He  would  have  nothing  to  say  to  them.  The  thing  he 
took  delight  in  was  making  mud  pies. 

In  later  life  it  is  but  few  of  us,  unfortunately,  that  can 
take  delight  in  little  things — or  in  mud  pies ;  but  there 
are  great  things  also  which  may  lose  their  charm  through 
too  much  indulgence  in  social  excitements;  and  when  we 
surrender  ourselves  wholly  to  such  excitements,  we  hardly 
know,  perhaps,  what  and  how  much  we  renounce  ;  not 
domestic  life  only,  or  only  tranquillity  and  peace  and  the 
spiritual  affections  that  blossom  in  peace;  but  also  Avhat 
Literature  can  give  us  when  she  is  sought,  not  in  her  high- 
ways, but  in  her  sanctuary;  and  still  more  distinctly  and 
absolutely  the  sense  of  beauty  in  the  face  of  nature.  I 
have  been  far  less  open  to  captivation  by  the  beauty  of 
Nature  (except  in  some  sorts  and  in  her  sylvan  recesses) 
than  other  persons  of  my  time,  having  the  same  or  the 
like  poetical  susceptibilities;  but  even  I  can  feel  the  value 
of  a  devotion  to  natural  beauty,  and  admire  the  admiration 
I  so  partially  and  imperfectly  partake.  This  much  I  should 
have  caught  from  my  father,  though  Wordsworth  bad 
never  existed;  and  I  remember  and  can  still  repeat  the 
majestic  stanza  of  Beattie's,  in  which  I  think,  more  than 
in  any  other  poetry,  he  found  a  not  inadequate  expression 
of  the  sort  of  reverence  for  the  beauty  of  Nature  which 
possessed  him : 

II.— 6 


123  Autobiograjphy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

"Oh!  how  canst  thou  renounce  the  boundless  store 

Of  charms  which  Nature  to  her  votaiy  yields, 
The  warbling  woodlands,  the  resounding  shore. 

The  pomp  of  groves  and  garniture  of  fields ; 

All  that  the  genial  ray  of  morning  gilds, 
And  all  that  echoes  to  the  song  of  even. 

All  that  the  mountain's  shadowy  bosom  shields, 
And  all  the  dread  magnificence  of  heaven — 
Oh !  how  canst  thou  renounce  and  hope  to  be  forgiven." 

Men  do  renounce  tliem  when  they  devote  their  days  and 
nights  to  society,  and  I  suppose  they  hope  to  be  forgiven, 
if  it  ever  occurs  to  them  that  there  is  anything  to  forgive. 
To  me,  if  health,  strength,  and  opportunity^  had  not  been 
wanting,  society  might  have  been  more  of  a  temptation 
than  it  was;  for  occasionally,  and  when  I  was  equal  to  it, 
I  liked  it. 


CuArTER   XI. 

MR.  AND  LADY  MARY  LABOUCHERE.— STATE  OF  HEALTH.— 
VISIT  TO  MR.  AND  MRS.  PRESCOTT.— LIFE  IN  A  LODGING.— 
AN  ILLNESS.— AN  OFFICIAL  ARRANGEMENT.— A  NEW  FRIEND- 
SHIP. 

Anno  Dom.  1855-59.     Anno  ^t.  55-59. 

DowxixG  Street  seems  an  odd  sort  of  locits  iti  quo  for 
a  nursery  of  friendships.  "  The  shepherd  in  Virgil  be- 
came at  last  acquainted  with  love,  and  found  him  a  native 
of  the  rocks."  It  may  be  so;  but  almost  all  my  friend- 
ships have  issued,  directly  or  indirectly,  out  of  Downing 
Street. 

In  November,  1855,  Mr.  Labouchere  (afterwards  Lord 
Taunton)  succeeded  Sir  W.  Molesworth,  who  a  few 
months  before  had  succeeded  Lord  Russell,  in  the  office 
of  secretary  of  state  for  the  colonies.  In  a  letter  of  the 
23d  of  that  month  Lord  Russell  writes:  "Labouchere, 
your  new  master,  is  one  of  the  purest  and  most  virtuous 
of  our  political  men  " — a  truth  which  was  recognized  with 
a  rare  unanimity  by  all  parties  in  the  political  world,  and 
with  a  heartfelt  appreciation  by  those  who  knew  him  in 
private  life. 

I  had  known  his  wife  before  her  marriage,  when  she 
was  Lady  IVIary  Howard,  but  had  seen  little  more  of  her 
in  those  days  than  her  looks;  thinking,  however,  then, 
that  "all  the  blood  of  all  the  Howards"  could  not  in  this 
matter  of  looks  be  more  fitly  represented.  In  later  years, 
when  I  knew  her  intimately,  I  knew  that  the  outward  as- 


124  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

pect  was  no  more  than  a  faithful  expression  of  the  inner 
life.     AVe  became  great  friends. 

I  avail  myself  of  my  letters  to  her  to  give  some  ac- 
count, along  with  other  things,  of  a  change  in  ray  health 
and  of  the  consequent  changes  in  my  manner  of  life. 

I  had  been  gradually  gaining  strength  since  the  time  of 
ray  travels  in  search  of  it,  but,  in  the  year  1857,  after  an 
attack  of  influenza,  a  cough  fixed  itself  upon  me  which 
lasted  long  enough  to  be  the  motive  of  a  visit  to  Torquay, 
and  to  my  friends  the  Prescotts,  who  were  staying  there. 
It  was  probably  premonitory  of  the  bronchitic  asthma 
which  was  shortly  to  follow,  but  it  appears  that  I  did  not 
look  upon  it  in  that  light. 

"ToEQUAY,  Wth  April. — I  came  here  last  Tuesday,  to 
see  if  I  could  get  rid  of  a  cough  which  I  have  had  since 
February,  and  which  annoys  Alice,  though  I  cannot  say 
that  it  does  wie  any  harm,  and  the  doctor  here  has  a  good 
opinion  of  it.  I  shall  take  it  back  to  Sheen  on  Thursday, 
quite  satisfied  that  it  is  a  good  and  wholesome  cough, 
though  led  to  believe  that  in  the  case  of  coughs,  as  of 
women,  mildness  and  obstinacy  go  together.  If  my 
change  of  air  has  not  done  much  for  me,  I  have  at  least 
had  a  very  pleasant  change  in  other  respects,  being  on  a 
visit  here  to  the  Prescotts,  with  whom  I  spent  some  two 
or  three  months  of  last  summer,  while  Alice  was  at  Tun- 
bridge  AVells;  people  abounding  in  kindness  of  all  sorts, 
and  hospitable  beyond  all  human  hospitality  of  modern 
times.  They  have  had  with  them,  since  January,  the 
whole  of  the  family  of  Stephen  Spring  Rice — his  wife  and 
'  the  tuneful  nine '  his  children,  and  their  governess  and 
servants — in  all,  seventeen  souls ;  and  the  house  is  as 
'  cheerful  as  a  grove  in  spring,'  and  music  goes  on  from 
morning  till  night — pianoforte,  harp,  violin,  violoncello, 
and  voices  of  all  kinds,  and,  I  may  also  say,  of  all  ages ; 


State  of  Health.  125 

for  yesterday  I  heard  a  song  very  beautifully  sung  by  a 
lady  seventy-seven  years  old.  The  music  all  day  long,  and 
not  the  performing  only,  but  even  the  practising,  suits  me 
— better  than  it  would  you,  I  dare  say — for  I  have  an  igno- 
rant fondness  for  music  which  is  by  no  means  fastidious. 
And  then  there  is  a  great  deal  of  girl-life  going  on,  which 
is  always  full  of  interest  for  me;  and  there  is  one  very 
line  creature  of  the  girl-kind — ingenuous,  noble,  and  free 
— who,  though  not  of  the  house,  is  always  in  and  about  it, 
playing  croquet  on  the  lawn  by  day  or  making  music  in 
the  ev'enings,  and  concerning  whom — a  girl  I  had  never 
seen  till  last  week — I  was  seriously  consulted  by  a  man  of 
whom  I  know  almost  as  little.*  And  when  I  see  the  sort 
of  holiday-life  that  is  led  at  such  a  place  as  this,  I  hardly 
wonder  that  so  many  a  man  (like  Jacob)  finds  a  wife  at  a 
watering-place." 

In  1858  it  was  my  boy's  health,  and  not  my  own,  which 
was  a  subject  of  anxiety.  On  his  account  it  became  nec- 
essary that  Alice  and  the  children  should  live  by  the  sea- 
side for  many  months,  and  I  had  to  betake  myself  to  a 
lodging  in  London,  whence  I  wrote  to  Lady  Mary  (1st 
October):  "It  seems  like  returning  to  the  life  of  twenty 
years  ago — the  rather  dingy,  but  very  comfortable,  sitting- 
room  and  bedroom  that  open  into  each  other,  and  the 
more  than  dingy  but  very  serviceable  lodging-house  slut, 
who  does  everything  one  wants  so  much  better  than  half 
a  dozen  gentleman's  servants;  communicative,  too,  so  that 
one  is  led  to  mention  one's  feelings  and  get  many  little 
matters  attended  to  which  might  otherwise  have  been 
nipped  in  the  bud.     It  used  to  be  a  pleasant  life  in  the 

*  He  asked  me  whether  I  thought  lie  had  any  chance,  and  I  said, 
"None."  I  was  wrong.  They  were  married  soon  after.  It  lias  been 
said  by  a  recent  novelist,  with  some  approximation  to  truth,  that  no  man 
can  understand  how  any  other  man  can  win  a  woman's  love. 


126  Autobiography  of  llemnj  Taylor. 

days  in  which  the  sense  of  solitude  was  in  itself  a  sort  of 
inspiration,  and  the  society  of  phantoms  was  more  ani- 
mating and  delightful  than  flesh  and  blood;  but  'chewing 
the  cud  of  sweet  and  bitter  fancy'  is  a  very  different 
thing  at  fifty-eight  from  what  it  is  at  eight-and-twenty, 
and  I  am  afraid  I  shall  miss  Alice  and  the  children  with- 
out finding  my  insubstantial  friends  of  twenty  and  thirty 
years  ago.  However,  if  all  goes  well  at  St.  Leonard's  I 
shall  be  quite  happy  enough." 

Then  comes  a  description  of  some  acquaintances  we  had 
made,  in  the  persons  of  two  charming  young  Hungarians, 
a  Madame  de  Karowlij  and  her  brother,  a  Monsieur  de 
Kornis,  who,  by  the  time  we  had  become  intimate  with 
them,  were  about  to  depart. 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  well  to  make  this  sort  of  light,  fu- 
gacious friendships  ?  They  are  very  pleasant,  and  have  no 
cares  or  duties  charged  upon  them;  and  they  never  reach 
the  stage  where  'love  the  gift  is  love  the  debt;'  and  it  is 
so  pleasant  to  give  and  so  irksome  to  pay,  is  it  not  ?" 

Early  in  1859  came  the  illness  which  I  have  supposed  to 
have  been  foreshadowed  by  the  cough  of  1857.  It  lasted 
in  full  force  till  nearly  the  end  of  the  year,  and  Avhat  it 
was  like  is  shown  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Edward  Villiers,  of 
the  19th  December,  when  its  force  had  been  spent:  "And 
now  I  can  tell  you  of  three  weeks  more  of  perfect  peace; 
not  a  trace  of  asthma  left;  no  spasm,  scarce  a  wheeze 
even.  And  the  bronchitis  is  now  as  mild  as  it  can  be  to 
bear  that  name,  and  any  tightness  or  irritation  is  sure  to 
yield  to  one  or  two  cigarettes,  whether  by  night  or  by 
day.  From  what  I  can  learn,  mine  is  a  rare  and  remarka- 
ble case  of  cure.  It  was,  they  say,  a  case  of  singular  se- 
verity in  the  disease;  and  certainly  after  eight  months  of 
such  severities  coming  and  going,  and  never  wholly  inter- 
mitted but  for  a  few  days  in  April,  and  in  the  last  months 


An  Illness.  127 

much  aggravated,  nothing  could  seem  more  strange  than 
that,  with  the  use  of  a  few  cigarettes,  it  should  all  go  off 
in  smoke!  AYhiff,  whiff,  and  it  was  gone!  Now  that  I 
can  look  back  upon  it  as  a  part  of  the  past,  it  seems 
rather  a  dreadful  malady;  more  so  than  it  seemed  when 
it  Avas  upon  me;  except,  indeed,  when  I  saw  it  reflected  in 
Alice's  face  of  terror  as  she  sat  on  the  bed  during  my 
violences  of  spasm.  After  an  hour  or  two,  in  which  I 
may  almost  say  that  I  was  tempest-tossed  (for  I  had  to 
heave  myself  continually  up  and  down  with  my  hands  on 
the  bed  or  the  arms  of  a  chair  to  get  breath),  it  would 
subside  into  a  sort  of  ground-swell,  faint  and  holloAV  and 
long-drawn,  and  give  hopes  of  a  cessation ;  and  then  it 
would  rise  again,  sometimes  suddenly,  sometimes  slowly, 
into  storm  and  fury;  and  so,  by  turns  fierce  or  moderate, 
the  long  nights  wore  away:  nor  were  the  days  by  any 
means  exempt.     And  now  it  is  all  over, 

*And  birds  of  calm  sit  brooding  on  the  charmed  wave.* 
Let  us  hope  that  the  brood  will  be  birds  of  song,  and  that 
their  songs  will  be  of  thanksgiving  and  praise." 

The  spasmodic  form  of  disease  has  never  returned. 
The  cigarette  which  brought  it  to  such  a  sudden  end  was 
made  of  mild  tobacco  in  paper  slightly  impregnated  with 
saltpetre;  not  so  manufactured  with  any  medicinal  view, 
but  merely  to  make  it  burn  better.  It  happened  to  be  at 
hand  when  I  was  advised  to  try  smoking  tobacco;  and  it 
was  this  particular  combination  which  saved  me  :  for 
neither  saltpetre  nor  tobacco,  pure  and  simple,  or  in  other 
proportions,  was  of  much  use. 

My  illness  disabled  me  from  attendance  at  my  office, 
and  I  tendered  my  resignation;  which,  as  I  was  quite 
equal  to  work  at  home,  was  not  accepted.  But  a  vacancy 
occurred  in  the  office  of  chief  clerk,  to  which  I  was  entitled 
to  succeed,  with  an  additional  £200  a  year;  and  for  this 


128  Autol)iograj)hy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

office  attendance  could  not  be  dispensed  with.  In  a  letter 
which  Mr.  Merivale,  the  under  secretary  of  state,  ad- 
dressed to  mo  on  the  occasion,  he  described  the  duties. 
They  Averc  mainly  "  seeing  visitors,  controlling  servants, 
managing  the  interior  of  the  department,  etc.,  not  very 
onerous,  but  requiring  a  kind  of  house-dog-like  punctual- 
ity and  savageness."  For  these  duties,  even  if  attendance 
had  been  possible,  I  was  not  the  dog  that  was  "wanted. 
IJut  I  was  unwilling  to  forfeit  the  £200  per  annum,  and  I 
wrote  to  Mr.  Gladstone,  then  chancellor  of  the  exchequer 
(29th  September,  1859),  to  ask  what  he  would  advise. 

I  adverted  to  the  anomalies  of  my  case.  I  had  served 
in  one  grade  from  the  earliest  of  my  thirty-five  years'  ser- 
vice; the  duties  I  had  performed,  "while  continually  im- 
portant, had  been  from  time  to  time  duties  in  which  the 
largest  national  interests  were  involved."  In  1848,  cir- 
cumstances, and  a  state  of  health  w^hich  was  then  weaker 
than  it  had  been  in  the  twelve  years  succeeding,  had  led 
me  to  decline  the  office  of  under  secretary  of  state;  in  the 
present  year  my  better  health  had  been  interrupted  by  a 
new  disorder,  local  in  itself,  but  for  a  time  superinducing, 
through  mistaken  treatment,  general  loss  of  strength;  my 
general  health  was  now  nearly  restored,  and  I  was  strong 
as  against  work,  though  not  as  against  weather;  my  spas- 
modic complaint,  a  sort  of  wildcat  that  sleeps  by  day  and 
Avakes  by  night,  though  very  harassing  when  upon  me, 
affected  my  general  condition  little  more  than  by  depriv- 
ing me  of  rest;  and  the  doctors  told  me  the  disorder  would 
be  transitory,  and  might  leave  me  suddenly  and  at  once, 
though  it  was  impossible  to  say  w'hen.  Under  these  cir- 
cumstances it  appeared  to  me  that  the  house-dog's  duties 
might  be  devolved  upon  some  other  dog,  leaving  my  own 
duties  unchanged,  but  not  depriving  me  of  the  £200  a  year 
to  which  I  had  become  entitled. 


All  Official  Arrangement.  139 

I  sent  a  copy  of  my  letter  to  Lord  Grey,  and  be  ex- 
pressed his  entire  concurrence:  "As  you  state,"  he  writes, 
"  there  is  no  comparison  whatever  in  the  real  importance 
of  the  two  posts.  The  duties  which  you  have  hitherto 
performed  require  very  high  intellectual  qualities,  and  it 
would  be  impossible  to  replace  your  judgment  and  experi- 
ence in  their  discharge.  The  proper  duties  of  the  chief 
clerk,  on  the  other  hand,  though  requiring  a  person  in 
whom  implicit  confidence  can  be  placed,  and  very  impor- 
tant in  their  way,  are  yet,  for  the  most  part,  either  me- 
chanical, or  of  such  a  character  as  to  require  rather  the 
qualifications  of  a  strict  non-commissioned  officer  in  the 
army  than  those  needed  in  a  person  who  has  to  give  his 
advice  and  assistance  in  deciding  upon  questions  of  state 
policy." 

Mr.  Gladstone's  reply  was  substantially  favorable  to  my 
views:  "  Before  I  came  to  that  part  of  your  letter  which 
touches  on  the  point,  the  idea  bubbled  up  in  my  mind  that 
the  question  really  ought  to  be,  not  about  the  succession 
to  the  chief  clerkship  merely,  but  about  the  chief  clerk- 
ship itself.  This  is  not  merely  the  keen  nose  of  a  chan- 
cellor of  the  exchequer  snuffing  slaughter  like  a  raven 
from  afar,  but  it  is  founded  on  my  own  views  and  recol- 
lections, as  well  as  mightily  strengthened  by  your  state- 
ments." What  he  was  prepared  to  approve,  therefore, 
was  the  abolition  of  the  chief  clerkship,  with  a  reservation 
of  the  additional  salary  to  be  allotted  to  the  senior  clerk 
who  might  be  best  entitled  to  it;  that  is,  on  the  present 
occasion,  myself. 

The  chief  clerk  did  not  actually  retire  till  nearly  the 
end  of  the  year.  Till  then  I  had  not  been  in  direct  com- 
munication with  the  Duke  of  Newcastle  (then  secretary 
of  state)  upon  the  subject;  but  on  the  14th  December  he 
wrote  to  me  to  announce  the  vacancy  and  to  explain  the 
II.— 0* 


130  Auiohiography  of  Jlenry  Tayloi'. 

diflSculty  in  Avbicli  it  placed  him.  After  adverting  to  my 
own  qualifications  and  to  the  nature  of  the  duties  of  the 
chief  clerk, -with  its  minor  details  and  the  attendance  it  in- 
volved, he  Avrote:  "I  fear  your  health  will  not  allow  of 
this  attendance.  I  doubt  Avhether  you  could  act  by  deputy. 
I  dread  your  attempting  the  labor  and  then  being  obliged 
to  leave  us  altogether."  And  his  letter  concludes  by  in- 
viting me  to  suggest  a  solution:  "I  have  now  frankly 
told  you  my  difficulties  and  my  misgivings.  In  return  I 
ask  you,  as  a  fi'iend,  to  be  equally  frank  with  me.  Enable 
me,  if  you  can,  to  do  what  is  agreeable  to  you  and  is  not 
incompatible  with  the  good  of  the  public  service." 

In  reply  I  sent  my  correspondence  with  Mr.  Gladstone 
and  Lord  Grey,  and,  pointing  to  the  proposal  that  the 
£200  a  year  by  which  the  salary  of  chief  clerk  exceeded 
that  of  the  office  I  filled  should  be  converted  into  a  good- 
service  pension  and  the  duties  be  devolved  upon  others,  I 
left  the  question  to  be  dealt  with  by  his  grace  in  the  way 
which  might  appear  to  him  to  be  most  for  the  public 
interests.  I  heard  no  more  of  the  matter  for  four  or  five 
months.  I  believe  there  were  difficulties  about  the  aboli- 
tion of  the  chief  clerkship  and  the  substitution  of  a  salary 
to  be  disposed  of  on  the  dctur  digniori  principle.  No 
doubt  it  involved  a  conflict  of  interests  in  the  reversion 
between  the  expectant  heroes  and  the  expectant  house- 
dogs. It  was  in  deference  to  the  interests  of  the  latter, 
I  suppose,  that  the  chief  clerkship  was  not  abolished,  and 
at  last,  on  the  3d  May,  18G0,  the  duke  wrote  to  me  again. 
lie  told  me  that  he  had  been  trying  in  vain  to  make  an 
arrangement  with  the  treasury  by  which  I  should  be 
made  an  additional  assistant  under  secretary,  with  the 
£200  increment  of  salary,  and  that  the  salary  had  been 
agreed  to  but  not  the  title,  lest  it  should  be  claimed  in  the 
other  secretary  of  states*  departments.    He  added:  "I  feel 


An  Official  Arrangement.  131 

that  it  is  quite  possible  that  a  man  who  has  refused  the 
under-secretaryship  may  prefer  not  to  have  the  title  of 
second  assistant  under  secretary."  And  he  intimated  that, 
though  remaining  nominally  where  I  was,  the  intention 
was  that  I  should  be  subordinate  to  the  secretary  of  state 
only  and  independent  of  any  intermediate  authority;  and 
he  announced  his  selection  of  Sir  Frederick  Rogers  to 
be  under  secretary  of  state,  vice  Mr.  Merivale;  who  had 
resigned. 

I  replied  4th  May,  1860:  "You  have  done  for  me  all 
that  I  asked  or  desired,  and  I  knew  very  well  there  must 
be  difficulties  in  your  way  to  account  for  the  delay.  As 
to  the  name  of  chief  clerk,  I  had  no  more  wish  for  that 
than  for  the  duties,  and  both  are  very  fitly  disposed  of  by 
the  arrangements  you  have  made.  As  to  the  title  of 
second  assistant  under  secretary,  I  should  have  valued  it 
as  a  token  of  your  regard  and  consideration,  and  the  en- 
deavor you  have  made  to  give  it  me  has  the  same  value  in 
my  eyes.  In  any  other  point  of  view  it  is  not  material ; 
not  that  I  have  ever  affected  to  consider  adventitious  dis- 
tinctions as  nothing  worth;  for,  as  long  as  we  are  in  the 
world,  what  the  world  prizes  must  be  worth  something  to 
us,  directly  or  indirectly.  But  in  early  life  literary  dis- 
tinction seeming  to  be  more  within  my  reach,  what  ambi- 
tion was  in  me  naturally  spent  itself  there;  and  in  later 
life  ambition  of  any  kind  seems  rather  out  of  date.  So  I 
am  well  content  to  rest  where  I  am,  with  the  additional 
satisfaction  of  knowing  that  you  would  have  wished,  if 
you  could  have  managed  it,  to  make  my  title  more  in  ac- 
cordance with  my  work.  I  dare  say  Gladstone  would 
gladly  have  gone  along  with  you  if  his  outlooks  for  the 
exchequer  would  have  allowed  him.  I  have  another  sub- 
ject of  satisfaction — in  the  appointment  of  Rogers.  The 
choice  of  a  permanent  under  secretary  is,  in  my  estima- 


133  Autobiogrcq^liy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

tion,  by  far  the  most  important  function  which  it  can  de- 
volve upon  a  secretary  of  state  to  exercise.  The  direct 
consequences  of  that  one  act  extend  far  and  wide  through 
tlie  whole  colonial  empire,  and  last,  in  all  probability,  for 
a  long  series  of  years.  A  bad  appointment  to  this  office 
is  the  deadliest  blow  that  can  be  dealt  to  the  colonial  ser- 
vice, and  a  good  one  is  the  greatest  blessing  that  can  be 
bestowed"  upon  it.  My  personal  intercourse  with  Sir  F. 
Rogers  has  not  been  much,  but  I  have  had  large  and  con- 
stant opportunities  of  observing  him  in  business,  and  I 
have  long  been  of  opinion  that  he  has  practical  abilities  of 
the  highest  order,  a  just  and  penetrating  judgment,  and  a 
habit  of  searching  out  every  question  that  is  before  him 
in  its  whole  length  and  breadth,  and  yet  dealing  with  it 
conclusively  and  succinctly.  To  this  is  to  be  added  per- 
sonal dispositions  and  character  V\'hich  everybody  seems 
to  appreciate,  and  the  influence  of  M'hich  will  be  felt,  not 
only  by  those  with  whom  he  transacts  business  face  to 
face,  but,  what  is  of  more  importance  to  the  public  inter- 
ests, by  governors  and  public  servants  in  distant  posses- 
sions, who  do  not  always  meet  with  an  equal  measure  of 
courtesy  and  consideration  for  their  feelings.  As  to  the 
more  avowedly  independent  management  of  AVest  Indian 
affairs  which  your  grace  has  in  view  for  me,  I  have  no 
wish  for  it  on  my  own  account;  on  the  contrary,  I  should 
be  glad  of  any  intermediate  supervision  which  would  give 
me  an  additional  security  against  errors." 

And  so  was  brought  to  a  close  this  arduous  achievement 
of  £200  a  year.  ]>ut  the  simultaneous  change  in  the  ofticc 
of  the  under  secretary  of  state  led  to  another  and  a  very 
different  acquisition.  My  close  official  association,  begin- 
ning then  and  continuing  for  the  next  ten  years,  with  Sir 
Frederick  Rogers  (now  Lord  Blachford),  enriched  those 
years  and  all  that  have  followed  with  a  new  and  very 


A  New  Friendshii).  133 

precious  friendship — sucli  a  friendship  as  can  rarely  be 
formed  after  youth  has  spent  its  ardors  and  middle  age 
its  appetite  for  new  interests  and  its  powers  of  adapta- 
tion. 

By  this  time  most  of  the  friends  of  my  youth  had  been 
taken  from  me.  I  can  understand,  but  I  cannot  share,  the 
feeling  expressed  by  Landor: 

"  Oh,  my  lost  friends  !     Wliy  were  ye  once  so  dear, 
And  wliy  were  ye  not  fewer,  oh  ye  few!'' 

I  not  only  understand,  but  devoutly  adopt  the  sentiment 
of  a  greater  poet: 

*'  Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all." 

But  whichever  feeling  be  better  and  whichever  worse, 
there  can  be  no  doubt  that,  among  the  blanks  which 
present  themselves  for  our  contemplation  in  old  age,  few 
are  more  melancholy  than  the  erasures  made  by  death  in 
the  list  of  early  friendships,  not  likely,  in  the  ordinary 
course  of  things,  to  find  any  set-oflf  in  the  reckonings  of 
life  that  remain. 

I  was  in  my  sixtieth  year  when  my  intimacy  with  Sir 
Frederick  Rogers  began;  he  about  ten  years  my  junior. 
The  opinion  of  his  powers  which  I  expressed  in  my  letter 
to  the  Duke  of  Newcastle  was  founded  upon  his  work  in 
the  offices  he  had  held  jointly  for  many  years  of  law  ad- 
viser to  the  colonial  department  and  commissioner  of  emi- 
gration. When  his  work  in  the  wider  sphere  of  under  sec- 
retary of  state  came  under  my  cognizance  my  admiration 
ran  higher  still;  and  I  think  I  can  now  say  that,  looking 
back  through  forty-eight  years  of  ofiicial  experience,  in 
the  course  of  which  I  served  under  twenty-six  secretaries 
of  state  and  a  somewhat  larger  number  of  under  secre- 
taries, I  have  not  known  any  one  of  either  class  who  was 
a  greater  administrator,  and,  I  think,  only  two  who  were 


134  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

on  a  par  -with  him  in  tlieir  intellectual  range  and  powers. 
What  was  peculiar  to  himself  was  a  combination  of  force 
with  circumspection — what,  I  think,  in  some  of  my  let- 
ters I  have  described  as  a  sure-footed  impetuosity.  No 
qualities  of  the  intellect,  however,  nor,  I  am  afraid,  his 
moral  and  spiritual  qualities  either,  though  of  the  highest 
order,  would  have  done  much  to  bring  about  the  relations 
Avhich  grew  up  between  us  in  a  few  years.  There  was 
more  than  that;  but  it  is  better  not  to  say,  even  if  I  could 
say,  what  are  the  other  qualities  that  make  a  friendship 
all  a  friendship  can  be,  beginning  soon  or  late,  and  all  one 
might  have  supposed  it  could  not  be,  beginning  in  the  lat- 
ter years  of  life. 


Chapter  XIL 

LIFE  AT  HOME.  — "ST.  CLEMENT'S  EVE."  — AUBREY  DE  VERE'S 
POETRY. 

Anno  Dom.  18G0.     ^t.  CO. 

From  Downing  Street  I  go  home  to  Sheen:  "We  arc 
living  our  life,"  I  write  to  Lady  Mary  Labouchere,  in 
January,  1860,  "under  the  same  conditions  as  before, 
comfortably  and  pleasantly;  all  well  except  myself,  and  I 
have  as  much  health  as  is  necessary  for  happiness  and  for 
work,  which  I  suppose  is  as  much  as  any  man  has  occa- 
sion for.  .  .  .  The  children  are  good  and  happy,  and  one 
advantage  of  confinement  to  the  house  is  that  I  see  a 
good  deal  more  of  them  than  I  used  to  do.  .  .  .  Harry 
(five  and  a  half)  comes  to  me  in  bed  at  half-past  seven, 
and  we  read  the  'Arabian  Nights'  till  breakfast;  and  in 
the  course  of  the  day,  whenever  he  can  spai'e  half  an  hour 
of  his  valuable  time,  he  comes  for  a  few  chapters  of  the 
'Morte  d'Arthur:'  and  the  baby  frequents  my  knee,  and 
has  a  great  deal  to  say  to  me  in  her  fractd  loqiield, 
'Sweeter  than  all  the  heathen  Greek 
That  Helen  spoke  when  Paris  wooed  ;' 

though  it  is  heathen  Greek  to  me,  and  I  can  scarcely  hold 
a  conversation  with  her  unless  I  have  one  of  the  other 
children  to  act  as  interpreter.  You  ask  w^hether  I  read 
much.  Yes,  I  do.  And  this,  too,  confinement  favors;  and 
in  the  watches  of  the  night  (for  I  am  many  hours  in  bed 
and  not  many  asleep)  I  feel  as  if  I  returned  to  something 
like  the  silence  and  seclusion  of  my  bachelor's  lodging  of 


130  Autobiographj  of  Ilcnry  Taylor. 

t^vcnty  and  thirty  years  ago,  and  as  if  it  might  be  possi- 
ble for  me  to  write  as  well  as  read." 

And  it  loas  possible,  for  it  Avas  at  this  time  that  "  St. 
Clement's  Eve  "  was  written. 

The  choice  of  a  subject  had  always  been,  and  was  still, 
a  perplexing  preliminary.  In  writing  to  Aubrey  de  Vere 
to  acknowledge  an  article  on  the  play  by  him  in  the  North 
British  Hevieic — an  article  which  I  said  was  "a  beautiful 
work,  and  in  itself  a  sort  of  poem,  or,  at  least,  a  garland 
in  which  the  poetry  is  to  the  prose  as  the  flowers  to  the 
leaves" — I  said  something  of  these  impediments  of  the 
threshold : 

"Among  the  various  ])rcgnant  observations  your  arti- 
cle contains  there  is  none  more  useful  to  poets  than  that 
on  the  care  to  be  used  in  the  choice  of  a  subject.  But 
perhaps  few,  even  of  literary  men,  are  aware  how  difficult 
it  is  to  find  a  subject  for  a  drama  which  combines  the 
chief  requisites — how  impossible  to  find  one  which  com- 
bines all  or  many  of  the  requisites  one  would  require. 
With  me,  owing  to  my  limited  knowledge  of  history  and 
of  legendary  writings,  the  difiiculty  of  choice  resolved  it- 
self into  a  choice  of  difficulties.  I  would  have  extended 
the  limits  of  my  knowledge  if  I  had  had  more  time  or 
more  activity.  .  .  .  '  Philip  Van  Artevelde' was  suggest- 
ed to  me  by  Southey;  Macaulay  wrote  me  a  letter  sug- 
gesting 'Mary  Queen  of  Scots;'  Lord  Aberdeen  another, 
suggesting  the  conquest  of  Naples  by  Charles  VIII.  It 
is  only  surprising  that  one  out  of  three  subjects  suggested 
by  men  Avho  had  not  themselves  written  plays  should 
have  proved  practicable.  I  examined  the  other  subjects 
carefully  and  could  make  nothing  of  them.  Each  pre- 
sented some  brilliant  or  impressive  features,  but  also  some 
fatal  defects.  ...  As  to  '  St.  Clement's  Eve,'  my  asthma 
obliged  me  to  sit  up  in  bed  some  hours  of  every  night  in 


''St.  Clement's  Evey  137 

1859,  and  this  gave  me  time  for  reading.  I  read  thirteen 
vohimes  of  Barante — more  history  than,  I  dare  &ay,  1  had 
read  for  thirteen  years  before  —  and  I  came  across  the 
story.  I  do  not  find  so  much  fault  with  it  as  you  do.  I 
think  the  defects  were  rather  in  the  chooser  than  in  the 
choice,  and  that  the  subject  was  suited  to  me.  Nor  do  I 
recognize  the  dilemma  you  mention  in  the  case  of  lolande. 
A  girl  does  not  fall  in  love  and  pick  herself  up  again  in 
an  instant,  be  she  as  pure  and  pious  as  she  may;  and  if, 
within  less  than  twenty-four  hours,  lolande  did  not  feel 
sure  that  she  had  cast  out  every  atom  of  amorous  senti- 
ment, why  should  we  not  impute  it  either  to  the  condi- 
tions of  humanity  refusing  annihilation  by  revulsion,  or  to 
the  self-distrust  of  a  humble  nature  led  by  the  disposition 
of  a  devout  nature  to  accuse  herself  rather  than  give  up 
her  belief  in  the  efficacy  of  a  relic?  If  you  want  any- 
thing holier  or  nobler  than  wiiat  lolande  is  meant  to 
be,  I  think  you  must  pass  out  of  the  truths  of  human- 
ity, and  also  out  of  those  ranges  of  fiction  in  which 
the  highest  purposes  of  the  drama  are  to  be  accom- 
plished." 

Aubrey  explained  that  he  had  no  quarrel  with  lolande, 
but  only  with  the  nature  of  the  theme  which  required 
that  lolande  should  quarrel  with  herself. 

The  play  was  published  in  June,  1862,  and  met  with  a 
much  better  reception  than  "The  Virgin  Widow."  Of 
an  edition  of  fifteen  hundred,  nine  hundred  had  been  sold 
in  six  months,  and  I  think  it  was  in  the  next  six  months 
that  another  edition  appeared;  not  sepai'ately,  however, 
but  with  my  other  plays  and  with  my  poems  in  a  collec- 
tive edition  of  three  volumes.  It  was  a  mistake  not  to 
publish  the  volumes  severally  as  well  as  collectively. 
They  went  off  fast  enough  for  a  few  months,  but  for  the 
ensuing  three  years  very  slowlj^.     Then  they  were  sepa- 


138  Aiitobiograjpliy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

rated,  and  each  jirospered  again  in  its  degree,  the  more 
poijular  giving  the  less  popular  a  loving  lift. 

"  Did  I  tell  you  "  —  "  you  "  being  James  Spedding  — 
"that  my  plays  had  made  a  leap  in  1868  to  more  than 
treble  their  previous  sale?  Since  the  beginning  of  this 
year  (1809)  I  am  told  tliat  they  have  been  selling  at  six 
times  the  rate  of  the  years  before  1808.  Little  as  I  like 
the  public,  I  am  beginning  to  think  rather  well  of  it.  It 
must  be  api)lying  its  heart  unto  wisdom." 

Tliis  "was  the  account  given  me  by  the  publishers;  but 
the  "  six  times "  must  have  been  an  exaggeration,  or,  if 
not,  must  have  represented  a  merely  casual  and  momen- 
tary impulse. 

Though  my  spasmodic  malady  had  come  to  an  end  in 
1859,  the  bronchial  membrane  had  been  permanently  in- 
jured, and  for  a  portion  of  every  day  and  night  there  was 
a  sense  of  irritation  in  the  chest  which  for  some  years 
was  very  troublesome,  and  to  this  day  has  never  been  en- 
tirely removed.  As  late  as  the  end  of  1801  (10th  Decem- 
ber) I  write  to  Lady  Mary:  "As  to  myself,  I  believe  I 
am  rather  better,  if  anything,  than  I  was  last  Avinter;  but 
I  have  the  old  hedgehog  in  my  chest  still,  and  I  never 
leave  the  house  except  in  a  carriage.  You  inquire  what 
are  my  habits  of  life?  I  smoke  tobacco  or  stramonium, 
or  both,  three  times  in  the  day  and  twice  in  the  night. 
As  to  occupations,  I  begin  the  day  at  seven  o'clock  and 
work  at  my  pouch  till  nine,  when  it  goes  to  the  post. 
After  breakfast  I  work  and  read  till  six  o'clock  or  there- 
abouts, when  I  look  for  a  little  music;  then  comes  some- 
thing in  the  nature  of  a  dinner  at  seven,  after  which  mis- 
cellaneous diversions  or  transactions,  and  at  a  little  after 
eight,  having  been  duly  applauded  or  reproved  by  Alice, 
according  to  my  deserts,  I  betake  myself  to  bed;  for 
about  that  time  the  hedgehog  begins  to  be  troublesome, 


Presentation  Copies.  139 

and  I  am  best  in  bed,  where  I  smoke  bim  out,  and  then 
end  the  day,  as  I  began  it,  with  official  business,  read  the 
Times,  and  sooner  or  later  go  to  sleep. 

"  I  hear  that  your  new  house  is  a  beautiful  one.  There 
are  few  things  I  should  like  better  than  to  pay  you  a  visit 
in  it,  but  my  account  of  myself  shows  you  the  impossibil- 
ity; and  I  suppose  the  affection  of  the  chest  is  organic, 
and  that  the  hedgehog  will  be  as  long-lived  as  myself — in 
which  case  long  life  to  him  !" 

When  "St.  Clement's  Eve"  was  published,  I  think  the 
questionable  practice  of  sending  presentation  copies  to 
acquaintances  as  well  as  friends  was  still  more  prevalent 
than  it  is  now  (1876),  and  I  am  not  sure  that  I  kept  with- 
in even  the  large  limits  then  usual.  The  number  of  au- 
thors and  books  has  increased  and  multiplied  continually 
for  a  couple  of  centuries,  and  if  Dean  Swift's  contempo- 
raries are  looking  down,  they  must  see  how  little  cause 
they  had  to  grumble.  Since  the  "  Tale  of  a  Tub  "  was 
published  in  1V04,  the  number  has  become  probably  one 
hundred  times  what  it  was  when  the  oj'owd  assembled  to 
see  the  mountebank  in  Leicester  Fields.  We  are  now  a 
trouble  to  many  as  well  as  to  each  other,  and  I  am  afraid 
that  most  presentees  would  rather  dispense  with  the  pres- 
ent than  have  to  invent  the  necessary  letters  of  eulogy 
and  thanks.  The  presentees  of  "  St.  Clement's  Eve,"  how- 
ever, executed  their  troublesome  task  with  much  courtesy 
and  kindness ;  and  I  hope  without  too  much  vexing  their 
consciences  for  what  they  said: 

"For  lying  hath  degrees  and  difference." 
Southey  once  told  me  that  the  only  insincerity  that  could 
be  justly  laid  to  his  charge  was  in  writing  this  sort  of  let- 
ter ;  and  if  it  is  a  fault,  it  is  one  with  which  I  am  charge- 
able myself.  The  excuse  for  it  is  analogous  to  that  which 
will  be  generally  admitted,  for  saying  to  a  visitor  "  I  am 


140  A  utohlograjyhy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

glad  to  see  you,"  when  in  point  of  fact  one  is  not  glad. 
The  usages  of  society  demand  some  complimentary  lan- 
guage of  tlie  kind;  the  person  to  whom  it  is  addressed 
knows,  or  ought  to  know,  that  the  language  is  employed 
in  a  sense  to  be  construed  by  usage ;  and  so  construed  it 
need  not,  unless  elaborately  false,  convey  anything  culpa- 
bly deceptive. 

Among  the  presentees  of  "  St.  Clement's  Eve  "  was  my 
old  friend  and  benefactor,  Sir  Henry  Holland.  He  wrote 
to  me  Avith  all  his  habitual  kindness;  but  he  had  one  fault 
to  find,  and  what  it  was  will  be  seen  in  my  reply:  "The 
objection  you  allege  to  archaistic  language  was  some  time 
ago  alleged  against  me  by  another,  for  whose  critical  judg- 
ment also  I  feel  the  highest  respect.  I  had  answers  to 
make — how  far  worthy  of  your  consideration  and  his  I 
know  not  —  which  are  these:  I  said  that  this  region  of 
writing  is  a  region  of  art  and  artifice  or  artificial  devices; 
that  verse  itself  is  artificial,  and  one  of  its  purposes  is  to 
remove  the  reader  from  the  language  of  common  life;  that 
the  language  of  poetry  differs  from  that  of  prose  and  from 
that  of  real  life,  not  in  rhyme  and  rhythm  only,  but  also 
in  fabric  and  inflection,  and,  therefore,  the  additional  arti- 
fice of  warping  it  to  an  antique  model  is  matter  of  degree 
rather  than  of  principle  ;  that  in  considering  the  language 
of  English  dramatic  poetry  we  have  to  bear  in  mind  that 
the  Elizabethan  dramatists  have  made  their  own  language 
almost  the  vernacular  tongue  of  our  drama,  insomuch  that, 
for  my  own  part,  writing  under  the  second  nature  of  art, 
it  comes  more  easily  to  me  to  use  their  language  than  my 
own  ;  and,  finally,  that  the  Elizabethan  language  is  in- 
trinsically and  essentially  far  nobler  and  more  impressive 
and  significant  than  any  which  has  been  spoken  or  written 
since. 

"Still  the  main  question  must  be,  what  is  the  actual 


Archaistio  Languages.  I4l 

effect  upon  the  reader  of  this  imitation,  necessarily  (as 
you  observe)  imperfect,  of  an  antiquated  speech  ?  All 
the  arguments  in  the  world  will  not  justify  it  if  the  effect 
is  bad.  And  such,  it  appears,  it  actually  is  upon  you  and 
others  of  the  class  of  minds  to  which  pre-eminently  a  poet 
would  desire  to  address  himself.  If  it  be  equally  so  with 
the  majority  of  such  minds,  there  is  nothing  more  to  be 
said.  I  cannot  venture  to  assume  that  the  majority  is 
with  me.  I  can  only  hope  it  may  be  so.  I  am  sure  it 
would  be  against  me  if  I  were  to  imitate  antique  language 
elaborately  and  in  detail.  But  with  me,  noAV,  whatever 
may  have  been  the  case  originally,  the  imitation  is  not 
studious,  but  for  the  most  part  unconscious.  The  habit 
of  art  has  formed  a  mould  into  which,  when  composing 
dramatic  poetry,  my  thoughts  naturally  throw  themselves, 
and  out  of  which  they  proceed  in  the  semblance,  more  or 
less  imperfect,  of  Elizabethan  speech.  There  is  one  other 
consideration  which  maj",  I  think,  be  taken  into  account. 
If  there  are  injurious  effects  produced  by  employing  an 
antique  diction,  would  there  not  also  be  some  that  are  in- 
jurious from  using  that  of  our  own  time  ?  Into  the  mixed 
drama  which  I  y^^vite,  familiar  colloquy  not  unfrequently 
enters.  If  I  were  to  use  modern  language  in  this,  I  should 
be  apprehensive  that  the  effect  would  be  that  of  a  play 
acted  by  daylight  instead  of  lamplight.  Such  are  my 
pleas  valeant  quantum.'''' 

Sir  Henry  admitted  their  validity,  and  withdrew  his 
objection. 

Whither  I  went  and  what  I  Avas  about  next  is  men- 
tioned in  a  letter  to  Lady  Minto,  24th  March,  1864:  "I 
am  to  set  off  for  the  seaside  the  day  after  to-morrow,  and 
before  I  go  I  must  send  you  a  sort  of  a  sigh  about  my  de- 
parture happening  before  your  arrival.  You  ask  me  why 
we  go  at  this  time,  and  my  answer  is,  for  the  lucre  of 


142  Autohiograjjhy  of  Ilcnry  Taylor. 

gain.  None  of  our  frienrls  Avill  pay  us  fifteen  guineas  a 
week  for  our  company,  and  even  mere  strangers  Avill  pay 
us  that  money  for  our  room.  So  what  can  a  man  do  with 
the  mercenary  feelings  of  age  creeping  upon  him  and  war- 
ring against  his  affections  ?  .  .  .  I  have  been  busy  in  pre- 
paring a  selection  from  Aubrey  de  Vere's  poems,  which 
Macmillan  has  undertaken  to  publish  in  his  most  ornate 
style,  at  his  oicn  risk.  This  last  point  is  a  material  one 
for  Aubrey,  who  has  published  five  volumes  since  1852,  at 
no  small  sacrifice,  and  observed  the  other  day,  with  some 
justice,  that  he  could  not  be  considered  a  poor  man,  inas- 
much as  it  was  in  his  power  at  any  moment  to  double  his 
income  simply  by  laying  down  his  pen.  From  the  one 
thousand  two  hundred  pages  of  these  five  volumes  I  have 
selected  about  three  hundred  and  fifty,  which,  with  a  few 
new  poems,  will  make  a  volume  not  forbidding  in  bulk, 
and,  I  should  have  said,  with  some  assurance  if  old  expe- 
rience had  not  made  me  diflident,  captivating  by  its  con- 
tents. Aubrey  started  for  Rome  just  as  Macmillan  had 
agreed  to  publish  it,  and  I  have  been  correcting  the  proofs 
as  foster-father,  and  also  writing  an  article  for  Fraser's 
Magazine  upon  it — a  sort  of  thing  I  had  not  done  for 
many  years.  And  I  find  it  a  very  difficult  task;  for  I  de- 
sired to  avoid  panegyric,  tlie  public  mind  not  being  pre- 
pared for  it;  and  I  desired  to  avoid  censure,  as  not  falling 
in  with  my  views,  purposes,  and  opinions;  and  if  one  is  to 
review  poems  without  either  praising  or  blaming  them, 
what  has  one  got  to  say  of  them  ?  The  question  was  not 
easy  to  answer,  and  I  sat  hour  after  hour,  like  the  Persian 
poet,  'scratching  the  head  of  thought  with  the  nails  of 
despair;'  but  at  last  I  have  succeeded  in  inventing  enough 
of  neutral  nothings  to  fill  interspaces  between  extracts, 
and  serve  for  prose  settings  to  the  poetical  gems. 

"  I  wish  there  were  any  hope  of  a  walk  with  you  through 


Aubrey  de  Vere's  Poetry.  143 

the  pine  woods  of  Bournemouth  after  your  London  sea- 
son. .  .  .  By  the  time  the  shade  of  the  woods  is  acceptable 
we  shall  be  in  and  among  them,  while  you  will  be  thrid- 
ding  the  thickets  of  society,  and  gathering  grapes  from 
the  thorns  and  figs  from  the  thistles.  I  should  be  glad  to 
be  with  you  though,  there  or  anywhere." 

Of  the  volume  mentioned  to  Lady  Minto  I  wrote  to  an- 
other correspondent:  "Have  you  read  the  volume  of  se- 
lections from  Aubrey  de  Vere  ?  In  the  process  of  select- 
ing, correcting  proofs,  and  reviewing  in  Fraser,  I  have 
read  them,  and  almost  all  his  poems,  many  times  over;  I 
hardly  know  how  many  times  —  countless  times;  I  have 
almost  lived  with  them  through  the  winter;  and  the  ever- 
growing effect  of  them  almost  convinces  me  of  what  I  was 
only  persuaded  before — that  they  have  another  destiny  be- 
fore them  than  that  which  the  world's  present  neglect 
would  seem  to  promise.  He  is  not  the  most  poetical  poet 
of  this  century;  but  of  the  poetical  poets  he  is  by  far 
the  most  intellectual,  next  after,  if  after,  Coleridge  and 
Wordsworth.  If  the  justness  of  his  intellect  were  equal 
to  its  range  of  power,  few  among  the  poets  would  be 
greater  than  he." 

Twelve  years  have  gone  by  since  that  letter  was  writ- 
ten, and  the  appreciation  of  Aubrey  de  Vere's  poetry, 
though  less  limited  than  in  1864,  has  not  extended  beyond 
the  bounds  within  which  the  appreciation  of  Milton  and 
Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  was  confined  for  about  thirty 
years  after  the  publication  of  their  best  poems. 

My  own  faith  is  unshaken.  It  is  founded  chiefly  upon 
those  of  his  poems — and  they  are  the  many — which  are 
thoughtful  without  being  doctrinal,  or  pre  -  eminently 
beautiful  without  being  either.  The  faults  of  his  poetry 
belonging  to  one  period  of  its  production  are  faults  of 
exuberance.     Thoughts  and  lights  from  high  and  low  and 


144  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

far  and  neai-  crowd  in  upon  Lis  mind,  and  singleness  of 
effect  is  sacrificed.  But  bis  gifts  are  manifold.  No  man's 
poetry  was  ever  more  diverse  in  kind  than  his.  And  what 
is  true  of  one  kind,  would  be  distinctly  untrue  and  the 
very  opposite  of  the  truth  if  said  of  another.  lie  can  be 
gracefully  light  as  well  as  profoundly  obscure,  pathetically 
simple  as  well  as  profusely  ornate. 

In  1852,  after  the  publication  of  his  "May  Carols,"  he 
and  I  had  a  correspondence  in  which  I  attributed  his  un- 
pojjularity  "  to  the  non-exercise  of  that  preliminary  act  of 
the  imagination  by  which  a  man  conceives  his  audience." 
lie  was  surprised  that  the  scheme  and  purpose  of  the 
"  May  Carols  "  had  not  been  perceived  even  by  its  critics. 
They  were  not  written,  he  said,  as  separate  poems,  but  had 
been  thought  out  together  before  they  were  individually 
composed.  They  were  intended  each  of  them  to  take  njj 
one  idea,  and  only  one,  and  conjointly  to  illustrate  Chris- 
tianity with  its  field  contemplated  from  one  especial  moun- 
tain-top as  a  point  of  view,  that  spot  being  the  doctrine 
of  the  incarnation.  I  should  have  been  surprised  if  the 
latent  doctrines  had  been  discovered,  though  I  might  be 
equally  surprised  if  the  exceeding  grace  and  beauty  of  the 
poetry  could  be  overlooked.     And  I  wrote: 

"  It  would  be  worth  while  to  search  out,  if  one  could, 
the  difference  between  the  mystery  which  has  been  found 
more  or  less  attractive  in  some  poetry,  and  the  obscurity 
which  has  been  found  repulsive  in  other.  I  do  not,  my- 
self, know  what  it  consists  in;  but  perhaps  one  sort  of 
mysterious  poetry  which  is  attractive  is  that  which  has  re- 
lation to  some  familiar  mystery  of  the  human  mind, 
which  most  people  look  into  and  no  one  hopes  to  pene- 
trate. The  absence  of  any  such  hope  or  expectation  re- 
leases the  mind  from  straining  at  conclusions  and  licenses 
to  a  sort  of  luxury  of  dimness.     But  in  a  dogmatic  phi- 


Aubrey  de  Vere's  Poetry.  145 

losophy  which  claims  assent  and  belief,  obscurity  is  not  tol- 
erated." 

From  the  obscurity  I  found  fault  with  in  the  "  May 
Carols,"  I  proceeded  to  find  fault  with  another  kind  of 
obscurity  in  another  series  of  poems.  These  were  pub- 
lished in  a  volume  called  "  Inisf  ail,"  and  were  designed  to 
illustrate  the  successive  ages  of  Irish  history,  legendary 
or  other.  Many  of  them  are  full  of  force  and  spirit;  but 
they  need  much  to  be  illustrated  by  a  knowledge,  not  often 
to  be  met  with,  of  the  history  of  which  they  are  designed 
to  be  illustrations. 

"  With  regard  to  '  Inisf  ail,'  I  should  think  there  is  lit- 
tle or  nothing  of  obscure  or  controvertible  doctrine  to  be 
objected  to  in  it;  but  there  is  often  more  or  less  obscurity 
as  to  the  historical  topics ;  and,  so  far  as  the  earlier  history 
of  Ireland  is  concerned,  I  am  not  surprised  that  it  should 
not  be  regarded  popularly  as  a  poetical  theme.  It  is  true 
I  know  nothing  about  it;  but  all  early  history  seems  to 
represent  nothing  else  than  the  conflict  of  barbarous  and 
perfidious  tribes  and  persons,  of  whom  one  is  so  like  an- 
other that  when  some  are  oppressed  and  trampled  upon, 
one's  comfort  is  that  they  only  suffer  what,  if  they  could, 
they  would  inflict.  People  take  no  interest  in  the  Hep- 
tarchy. Then  as  to  the  later  history  of  Ireland,  I  suppose  it 
might  be  regarded  as  a  poetical  theme  by  the  Irish;  but 
the  Irish  read  no  poetry  and  buy  no  books;  and  by  Eng- 
lish readers  it  is  regarded  under  the  disadvantage  of  an 
antipathy  to  the  Irish  national  character  and  a  conscious- 
ness of  an  antipathy  on  the  part  of  the  Irish  to  the  Eng- 
lish national  character.  I,  who  have  a  sympathy  with  both 
antipathies,  can  probably  estimate  the  effect  of  them  bet- 
ter than  you.  And  when  you  say  that  you  were  not  pre- 
pared for  the  effect  because  you  yourself  read  with  pleas- 
ure poems,  such  as  those  of  Shelley  and  others,  to  the 

II.— 7 


146  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

religious  and  political  tendencies  of  which  you  are  utterly 
opposed,  you  reckon  as  if  there  were  ten  thousand  Aubrey 
de  Veres  who  would  read  yours." 

AYhen  '•  Inisfail "  was  published,  Sir  Francis  Doyle  (then 
receiver-general  of  the  customs,  an  oflice  which  he  did  not 
appreciate  so  highly  as  that  of  professor  of  poetry  at  Ox- 
ford, which  he  filled  in  after-years)  was  staying  with  us  at 
Sheen;  and  an  inquiry  of  his  may  be  quoted  as  illustrat- 
ing my  notion  of  the  unhappy  ignorance  of  early  Irish 
history  which  the  poems  had  to  encounter:  "But  who 
is  the  Sugane  Earl  ?  because  he  speaks  of  the  Sugane  Earl 
as  if  it  was  the  chairman  of  the  board  of  customs,  and 
everybody  must  know  who  he  was." 

Having  said  quite  enough  of  Aubrey's  faults  as  a  poet, 
I  will  conclude  with  a  few  words  from  a  letter  of  mine  to 
a  lady  who  had  been  able  to  discover  some  faults  in  him 
as  a  man:  "  As  to  Aubrey  de  Vere's  faults,  he  has  fewer 
than  anybody  that  I  know,  and  it  would  be  well  for  you 
and  me  if  we  could  throw  our  faults  and  virtues  into 
hotchpot  with  Aubrey's  and  share  and  share  alike  accord- 
ingly. I  should  ride  off  like  a  beggar  set  on  horseback, 
and  you  would  be  lifted  from  a  comfortable  competence 
to  a  situation  in  which  you  would  look  down  upon  the 
kingdoms  of  the  earth  and  the  glory  thereof." 

No;  I  will  not  so  conclude.  Having  dwelt  upon  the 
difficulties  to  be  met  with  in  some  of  Aubrey  de  Vere's 
poems,  I  will  not  take  leave  of  them  without  a  sort  of  fare- 
well from  the  many  more  of  them  which,  to  ray  mind  at 
least,  suggest  no  difficulty  except  the  difficulty  of  finding 
anything  else  like  them  : 

"Thus in  mirth 
And  solemn  talk  and  prayer,  that  brother  band, 
III  the  golden  age  of  Faith,  witli  great  free  heart 
Gave  thanks  to  God  that  Missfid  eventide, 


Aubrey  de  Yere's  Poetry.  147 

A  thousand  and  four  hundred  years  and  more 
Gone  by.     But  now  clear  rang  the  compline  bell, 
And  two  by  two  they  wended  towards  their  church 
Across  a  space  for  cloisters  set  apart,   . 
Yet  still  witii  wood-flowers  sweet,  and  scent  beside 
Of  sod  that  evening  turned.     Tiie  night  came  on  ; 
A  dim  ethereal  twilight  o'er  the  hills 
Deepened  to  dewy  gloom.     Against  the  sky 
Stood  ridge  and  rock  unmarked  amid  the  day: 
A  few  stars  o'er  them  shone.     As  bower  on  bower 
Let  go  the  waning  light,  so  bird  on  bird 
Let  go  its  song.     Two  songsters  still  remained, 
Each  feebler  than  a  fountain  soon  to  cease, 
And  claimed  somewhile  across  the  dusking  dell, 
Rivals  unseen,  in  sleepy  argument. 
Each  the  last  word  :  a  pause ;  and  then  once  more 
An  unexpected  note :  a  longer  pause ; 
And  tlien,  past  hope,  one  other  note — the  last. 
A  moment  more  the  brethren  stood  in  prayer; 
The  rising  moon  upon  the  church-roof  new 
Glimmered  ;  and  o'er  it  sang  an  angel  choir 
'Venite  Sancti.'     Entering,  soon  were  said 
The  psalm  '  lie  giveth  sleep '  and  hymn  '  Ltetare ;' 
And  in  his  solitary  cell  each  monk 
Lay  down,  rejoicing  in  the  love  of  God."* 

*  "  Legends  of  St.  Patrick,"  p.  207.     The  Arraignment. 


Chapter  XIII. 

BOURNEMOUTH. 

Akno  Dom.  18G1-62.     Anno  Mr.  G1-C2. 

I  HAVE  been  more  coherent  as  to  topics  than  as  to 
time,  and  must  go  back  a  little. 

In  1861  we  found  our  way  to  Bournemouth.  We  chose 
it  in  that  year  for  the  place  of  our  abode  during  the  two 
summer  months  usually  spent  by  the  seaside. 

"  The  place  is  beautiful  beyond  any  seaside  place  I  have 
seen  exce2)t  the  Riviera,  and  the  air  is  dry  and  pure,  un- 
acquainted with  anything  but  the  sea,  the  pine -woods 
which  reach  for  miles  inland,  and  the  sandy  soil  in  which 
they  grow.  "We  contemplate  buying  a  house  here,  or  build- 
ing one.  The  building  of  our  house  at  Sheen  is  some 
encouragement  to  another  enterprise  of  the  kind.  It  cer- 
tainly answered  better  than  '  building  the  lofty  rhime.' 
And  Bournemouth  seems  to  have  the  elements  of  pros- 
perity and  growth  which  would  make  houses  a  good  specu- 
lation, as  well  as  the  aptitudes  which  would  make  a  house 
eligible  for  us  to  live  in  when  we  come  to  the  seaside." 

So  I  wrote,  in  May,  1861,  to  James  Spedding;  and  by 
December  we  had  found  a  house  half  built,  which  we 
bought  and  finished  to  our  fancy.  "  We  are  to  live  in  it 
in  the  summer  and  let  it  in  the  winter,"  I  wrote  to  Lady 
Mary  ;  "  while  the  Sheen  house  is  to  be  lived  in  in  the 
winter  and  let  in  the  summer  ;  and  in  this  way  we  hope 
to  make  money  and  be  well  housed,  and  to  harmonize  the 
comforts  of  life  with  the  lucre  of  gain." 


Bournemouth.  149 

Alice,  it  appears,  had  gone  down  to  Bournemouth  the 
day  before  with  three  vans  of  furniture.  "  I  believe  this 
is  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  she  has  been  separated 
from  her  children.  It  was  not  without  tears  from  more 
fountains  than  one;  but  it  will  be  only  for  a  week,  or  per- 
haps two  weeks.  The  five-years-old  girl  woke  at  ten 
o'clock  last  night,  troubled  with  the  thought  that  she  had 
not  written  to  her  mother ;  and  she  could  not  be  got  to 
sleep  again  till  she  had  dictated  a  letter  to  the  nurse,  to 
be  sent  in  the  morning. 

At  Bournemouth,  not  perhaps  in  its  small  beginnings  in 
1861,  but  in  after-years,  when  it  had  rapidly  grown  into 
a  first-rate  watering-place,  with  many  visitors  for  long 
terms  and  not  a  few  residents,  we  could  live  with  the 
friends  we  made  in  a  way  to  know  and  share  more  of 
their  interior  life  than  was  possible  in  London  or  its  sub- 
urbs. 

My  family  formed  new  attachments.  It  was  a  little  too 
late  in  life  for  me  to  do  quite  that.  From  Bournemouth 
I  wrote  to  Theodosia  Spring  Rice,  some  years  later : 
"We  are  to  move  home  to  Sheen  at  the  end  of  this 
month.  The  girls  will  be  sorry  to  make  the  exchange. 
They  have  several  friends  here,  and  they  have  hardly  any 
at  Sheen.  I  do  not  care,  having  no  friends  at  either. 
Perhaps  Sheen  is  the  better  place  for  me,  inasmuch  as 
London  is  not  far  off,  on  the  one  hand,  and  Pembroke 
Lodge  near,  on  the  other;  and  my  old  friends  are  the 
friends  available  for  me.  For  the  young  I  was  not  much 
of  a  companion  by  the  time  that  we  began  to  frequent 
Bournemouth.  .  .  .  In  London,  if  I  have  no  young  friends, 
I  have  two  or  three  good  old  ones  resident,  and  some 
phantoms  of  the  young  flitting  by  now  and  then.  Edie 
Lytton  promises  me  a  visit,  with  her  poetical  husband,  if 
they  are  detained  in  this  country  till  October;  and  now 


IjO  Autobiofjraphy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

and  then  the  other  of  the  twins*  makes  her  appearance. 
I  used  to  warn  them,  wliatever  else  they  did,  not  to  marry 
heroes  or  poets;  and  Edie  married  a  poet,  and  Lizzie  a 
hero.  Good  advice  is  thrown  away  upon  girls  in  these 
matters;  but  a  special  Providence  seems  to  have  spared 
them  the  consequences  of  disregarding  mine." 

If  I  had  not,  then  at  least,  made  any  absolute  friendships 
at  Bournemouth,  yet  there  were  social  interests  round 
about  me  which  had  their  value.  Wordsworth  says,  in 
one  of  his  sonnets: 

"  I  am  not  one  who  mucli  or  oft  delights 
To  season  his  fireside  witli  personal  talk." 

But  Miss  Fen  wick,  who  for  one  portion  of  his  life  knew 
more  of  his  fireside  than  anybody  out  of  his  family,  and  in 
some  respects,  I  think,  more  of  him  than  he  knew  of  him- 
self, told  me  that,  in  saying  so,  he  was  mistaken;  and  that 
no  one  liked  more  to  season  his  fireside  with  personal  talk; 
that  is,  if  Ave  are  to  use  the  language  of  disparagement, 
M'ith  "gossip."  And  w^hy  should  he  not?  To  a  poet, 
seeking  to  understand  human  life  and  nature,  every  detail 
of  it  may  be  instructive;  and  if  "the  meanest  flower  that 
blows"  can  give  him 

"Tiioughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears," 
SO  also  the  least  and  most  trivial  incidents  of  human  life 
may  not  be  without  interest  and  significance.  To  the 
frivolous  all  things  are  frivolous;  to  the  ill-natured  and 
unkind  everything  in  their  neighbors'  affairs  that  comes  to 
their  knowledge  may  be  an  occasion  for  uncharitable  com- 
ment. But  that  is  no  reason  why  others  should  not  take 
note  of  them  in  another  spirit.  If  my  dramatic  days  had 
not  been  nearly  over  when  I  began  to  know  Bournemouth, 
there  was  a  good  deal  to  be  seen  there  of  life  and  charac- 
ter which  my  plays  might  have  been  the  better  for. 
*  Lady  Lytton  and  Lady  Loch,  twin  daughters  of  Edward  Villiers. 


Gossip. 


151 


One  thing  came  to  my  knowledge  which  I  had  not  ob- 
served before:  I  found  that  the  most  simple,  ingenuous, 
and  imdisguised  of  one's  fellow-creatures  will  sometimes 
be  the  most  perplexing  of  all.  In  them  human  nature  is 
itself;  and  its  wonderful  inconsistency,  when  occasion 
discloses  it,  comes  upon  one  by  surprise.  In  other  natures 
— those  which  are  moi-e  or  less  studiously  self-constructed 
— one  is  not  led  to  believe  that  one  knows  all  about  them, 
and  one  is  not  in  the  same  degree  unprepared  for  the  things 
that  may  come  to  light  when  a  light  is  struck. 

And  this  came  in  support  of  what  I  had  long  felt — that, 
in  the  dramatic  representation  of  human  nature  it  is  pos- 
sible for  self -consistency  of  character  to  be  too  sedulously 
sought. 

What  Bournemouth  was  when  we  took  possession  of  our 
house  in  the  spring  of  1862,  is  to  be  gathered  from  another 
letter  (23d  May)  to  Lady  Mary:  "  We  like  our  new  house 
very  much.  It  is  a  size  smaller  than  our  Sheen  house,  but 
large  enough  for  us,  our  children,  and  a  stranger  within 
our  gates.  Nor  are  we  less  pleased  than  before  with  the 
hills  and  groves  and  pine  forest,  and  glimpses  of  the  sea 
seen  through  them.  As  to  the  live  beauty  and  the  hu- 
manities, the  '  residents,'  as  they  are  called,  consist,  I  be- 
lieve, of  two  clergymen,  two  doctors,  three  widows,  and  six 
old  maids.  Of  these,  the  doctors  and  two  of  the  widows 
have  families.  The  clergymen  and  the  old  maids  have 
none.  The  vicar  thinks  of  nothing  but  his  duties — labori- 
ous and  devoted,  w4th  a  singular  austerity  of  manner  and 
aspect.  He  looks  like  the  Commination  Service  incarnate. 
The  curate  is  handsome,  simple,  dutiful,  and  soft.  The 
doctors  are  intelligent.  Of  the  widows  I  have  only  seen 
one;  she  is  all  purity  and  refinement,  but  has  no  more  taste 
than  the  white  of  an  ^gg;  and  having  been  betrayed  by 
our  stupid  custom  into  putting  on  widow's  weeds  (I  don't 


153  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

know  how  long  ago),  does  not  know  how  to  put  them  off 
again.  The  old  maids  are  very  various.  Alice  says  there 
is  generally  more  difference  between  one  old  maid  and 
another  than  between  one  and  another  of  married  women. 
One  or  two  of  them  are  interesting;  one  with  the  ardors 
of  her  youth  hoarded,  not  spent.  The  beach  docs  not,  at 
this  season,  at  least,  present  the  groups  which  I  have  been 
accustomed,  at  some  seaside  places,  as  I  think  I  told  you, 
to  contemplate  curiously  at  a  distance,  with  a  view  to  some 
surreptitious  approach  and  the  picking  out  of  some  in- 
teresting new  acquaintance.  But  there  is  an  old  gray-and- 
whitecat  in  the  house — not  of  the  aristocratic  order  of  cats 
— homely,  friendly  to  man.  The  children  range  about  the 
woods  and  on  the  hills,  and  are  well  and  happy." 

Since  1861  we  have  passed  four  or  five  months  of  every 
year  at  Bournemouth,  and  I  think  the  elders  have  preferred 
it  to  Sheen.  "  We  like  Bournemouth  best,"  I  wrote  to 
Lady  Mary,  "not  for  its  beauty  only,  but  also  because  the 
social  atmosphere  is  warmer  than  that  of  the  neighbor- 
hood of  London;  for  London  casts  its  shadow  as  far  as 
Sheen,  and  neighbors  at  Sheen  are  not  so  much  to  each 
other  as  neighbors  at  Bournemouth.  The  attraction  of 
London  for  all  prevails  over  the  attraction  of  each  for 
each." 


Chapter  XIV. 

FRESHWATER  BAY.— MR.  AND  MRS.  CAMERON  AND  THEIR  CHIL- 
DREN.—MR.  AND  MRS.  TENNYSON  AND  THEIRS. 

Anno  Dom.  1860-G2.     Anno  ^t.  C0-G2. 

In  1860  the  Camerons  left  Putney  Heath,  where  they 
had  been  living  for  some  years,  and  betook  themselves  to 
a  house  which  they  had  bought  at  Freshwater  Bay,  in  the 
Isle  of  Wight.  And  as  our  adoption  of  Bournemouth 
for  a  summer  abode  occasioned  a  breaking-up  and  removal 
from  Sheen  to  Bournemouth  and  from  Bournemouth  to 
Sheen  in  every  spring  and  autumn,  and  as  I  was  found  to 
be  in  the  way  on  such  occasions,  I  was  sent  for  a  week  or 
two  every  spring  and  autumn  to  the  Camerons,  where  I 
was  not  found  to  be  so  much  in  the  way.  It  was  a  house, 
indeed,  to  which  everybody  resorted  at  pleasure,  and  in 
which  no  man,  woman,  or  child  was  ever  known  to  be  un- 
welcome. 

Conventionalities  had  no  place  in  it;  and  though  Cam- 
eron was  more  of  a  scholar  and  philosopher  than  a  country 
gentleman,  the  house  might  easily  have  been  mistaken  for 
that  of  the  old  English  squire,  who  is  said  to  have  received 
his  guests  with  the  announcement,  kind  though  imperious 
— "This  is  Liberty  Hall,  and  if  everybody  does  not  do  as 
he  likes  here,  by  God  I'll  make  him!" 

One  day,  I  remember,  a  lady  and  gentleman  and  their 
daughter  came  to  luncheon,  and  Mrs.  Cameron,  wishing  to 
introduce  them  to  me,  took  the  liberty  of  asking  them 
what  were  their  names.     She  had  met  them  in  the  steam- 

II.— 7* 


154  Axdobioyrai^lnj  of  Henry  Taylor. 

bout  "wlien  crossing  from  Lymington  to  Yarmouth  the  day 
before,  and  had  invited  them  without  knowing  anything 
about  them.  Anotlier  day  she  met  a  tourist  on  the  cliff, 
without  a  hat;  and  being  asked  what  had  become  of  it, 
he  said  it  had  been  blown  into  the  sea.  Whereupon  she 
told  him  he  must  not  go  about  with  no  hat  to  his  head, 
and  he  must  call  at  her  house  and  she  would  find  him 
one. 

The  attractions  of  the  house,  as  well  as  the  easy  access 
to  it,  soon  became  known  far  and  wide,  and  it  swarmed 
with  guests.  Cameron  himself,  agreeable  as  he  was  in 
society,  and  much  more  than  agreeable,  was  not  particu- 
larly fond  of  it.  Nevertheless,  he  seemed  quite  content 
that  the  house  should  be  always  full,  and  when  he  pre- 
ferred seclusion  he  went  to  bed. 

The  social  ways  and  aspects  I  became  acquainted  with 
at  Freshwater  Bay  came  out  occasionally  in  the  letters  I 
wrote  during  my  vernal  and  autumnal  visits.  One  of  the 
earliest  of  these  was  in  April,  1861 :  and  what  I  first  met 
with  is  mentioned  in  a  letter  to  Lady  Mary  (12lh  April, 
1861) : 

"  Shortly  after  my  arrival,  I  went  to  the  schoolroom  to 
pay  my  respects  to  the  governess;  and  there  I  found,  at 
her  studies,  besides  the  two  small  Cameronian  boys,  a 
very  pretty  little  girl  of  thirteen,  whom  I  supposed  to  be 
a  visitor  or  the  child  of  a  neighbor  taking  a  casual  lesson. 
She  proved  to  be  a  beggar  who,  with  her  mother,  had 
begged  of  Mrs.  Cameron  on  Putney  Heath  some  months 
ago.  They  were  Irish,  and  Mrs.  Cameron  had  got  a  good 
account  of  them  from  a  priest  (in  Glasgow,  I  think),  and 
had  established  them  in  her  lodge  at  Putney  Heath  and 
given  them  work;  and  when  she  came  hither  slie  put  the 
mother  in  the  way  of  getting  a  living,  and  brought  the 
child  with  her.     She  is  very  quick,  and  excessively  fond 


A  Romance.  155 

of  reading  and  learning.  Wliat  will  become  of  her?  If 
she  is  to  be  a  servant,  I  am  afraid  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  a  good  servant  who  is  fond  of  reading.  If  she  is  to  be 
a  governess,  will  she  be  any  happier  than  governesses  who 
have  not  been  beggars?  Mrs.  Cameron  sees,  I  think,  that 
these  are  rather  puzzling  questions;  and,  finding  no  satis- 
factory answer  to  them  at  present,  is  disposed  to  let  time 
solve  them,  and  guard  herself  against  petting  the  beggar 
more  than  she  can  help.  The  manners  and  customs  of  her 
and  her  race  (for  her  sisters  are  like  her  in  some  things) 
have  more  of  hope  than  of  reason  in  them,  and,  if  foresee- 
ing difficulties,  they  always  expect  to  be  able  to  deal  with 
them  as  they  arise.  Still  there  is  this  to  be  said  for  them, 
that  the  humanities  are  stronger  in  them  than  the  senti- 
mentalities, and  there  is,  therefore,  no  sentimental  incon- 
stancy in  the  prosecution  of  eccentric  undertakings.  The 
energy  with  which  they  are  first  set  on  foot  does  not  come 
to  an  end." 

What  I  so  said  was  justified  in  the  issue;  and  the  issue 
w^as  as  singular  as  the  outset.  The  child,  as  she  grew  up, 
became  a  parlor-maid.  Occasionally  she  was  rather  naugh- 
ty, and  revolts  of  the  household  and  no  small  difficulties 
occurred  from  time  to  time,  but  none  were  suffered  to 
prevail.  Mrs.  Cameron  having  been  seized  by  a  passion 
for  photography,  the  clever  parlor-maid  assisted  her  in  it; 
and  when  an  exhibition  of  her  photographs  was  to  take 
place  in  London,  she  was  sent,  under  the  care  of  an  old 
housekeeper,  to  attend  and  give  any  information  that  vis- 
itors might  require.  One  day  a  young  gentleman  made 
some  inquiry,  and,  obtaining  the  information  he  sought, 
took  away  with  him  that  and  something  else.  For  in  the 
course  of  a  year  or  two,  Avhen  he  had  made  sure  of  a  ca- 
reer in  the  Indian  civil  service  by  distinguished  success 
in  a  competitive  examination,  he  proceeded  to  Freshwater 


156  Auiohiograjphy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

Bay,  knocked  at  Mrs.  Cameron's  door,  and  asked  her  leave 
to  pay  his  addresses  to  her  parlor-maid.  She  inquired 
whether  he  had  a  father  and  mother,  and  being  answered 
that  he  had,  she  would  not  allow  him  to  see  the  girl  till 
she  had  placed  herself  in  communication  with  his  parents. 
The  father  had  filled  high  offices  in  India,  and  the  family 
was  one  of  some  consideration.  There  were  no  small  dif- 
ficulties in  the  way  of  the  alliance,  but  they  were  met  and 
surmounted;  and  the  marriage  took  place  with  the  good- 
will of  the  parents,  the  girVs  mother  excepted;  for  the 
Irish  beggar's  sense  of  aristocratic  proprieties  was  much 
offended  by  this  commixture  of  high  and  low. 

The  marriage  has  been  a  happy. one;  and  to  one  fact  I 
can  bear  witness,  that  there  has  not  been  wanting  in  the 
wife  the  Irish  aptitude  for  taking,  with  a  natural  ease  and 
grace,  any  social  position  which  Providence  may  think  fit 
to  award.  The  husband  has  got  on  well  in  the  service, 
and  has  now  (in  1878)  an  office  of  £2400  a  year. 

A  letter  of  mine  to  Alice,  from  Freshwater  Bay,  in 
May,  1860,  begins  with  an  allusion  she  would  understand, 
to  the  first  line  of  a  sonnet  of  Shakespeare's : 

"From  3'ou  I  have  been  absent  in  tbe  spring." 
8he  would  understand  it,  for  it  was  familiar  to  us  both,  as 
one  which  has  much  that  lies  half  hidden  in  it. 

"  The  absence  in  the  spring  seems  to  pass  very  pleas- 
antly with  you  truants,  and  with  me,  too,  pleasantly 
enough;  though,  when  I  looked  at  a  deep  meadow  which 
I  passed  this  morning,  rich  with  buttercups  and  bounded 
with  woodlands,  a  feeling  came  over  me  which  sometimes 
saddens  a  summer's  day  for  an  hour  or  so,  not  altogether 
intelligibly;  but  when  I  try  to  make  out  what  is  the  mat- 
ter, I  fancy  it  may  be  that  there  is  nothing  more  to  hope; 
here  is  the  earth  at  its  best;  the  feeling,  I  suj)230se,  which 
Coleridge  had  in  his  heart  when  he  said  : 


Tennyson.  157 

*  It  is  the  fulness  and  the  overflow 
"Which,  being  incomplete,  disquieteth  me  so.' 

Or  is  it  the  sense  of  '  rapid  evanescence '  wliich  Words- 
worth felt,  not  ■svhcu  beautiful  scenery  was  passing  away 
from  him,  but  when  he  was  passing  by  it  too  swiftly,  driv- 
ing instead  of  walking?  and  which  the  course  of  nature 
forces  one  to  feel  in  an  English  summer,  so  that 

'  Sadness  steals 
O'er  the  defrauded  heart.' 

Or  is  it  that  one  misses  sympathy  more  in  fruition  than 
in  hope?  for  I  sometimes  think  if  you  were  with  me  all 
would  be  well.  I  went  to  Tennyson's  by  one  of  his  ap- 
proaches, returned  by  another,  and  saw  his  house  fi'om 
top  to  bottom;  and,  having  now  seen  all,  I  do  think  it  is 
the  most  beautifully  situated  house  I  ever  beheld  (Rydal 
Mount  would,  no  doubt,  be  excepted  by  those  who  love 
mountains  better  than  I  do).  Plis  park  is  scarcely  less  in 
extent  than  Lox'd  Clarendon's,  delightfully  varied  with 
grove  and  deep  pasture ;  in  one  direction,  the  sea  at  a 
mile  off,  with  cliff  and  promontory  and  jutting  or  detached 
masses  of  rock ;  in  another,  the  crest  of  a  down,  covered 
with  gorse  bloom,  rising  at  a  distance  and  seen  over  a 
foreground  of  woodland;  in  a  third,  a  wide  plain,  with 
the  estuary  of  the  Solent  to  bound  it,  and  river  craft  com- 
ing and  going.  I  saw  the  children  again  and  liked  them 
much.  The  younger  is  certainly  good-looking ;  the  other 
has  pleasing  manners,  kindly  and  quiet,  with  an  interested 
gaze.  And  in  the  midst  of  all  this  beauty  and  comfort 
stands  Alfred  Tennyson,  grand,  but  very  gloomy,  whom 
it  is  a  sadness  to  see,  and  one  has  to  think  of  his  works  to 
believe  that  he  can  escape  from  himself  and  escape  into 
regions  of  light  and  glory." 

By  a  subsequent  letter  it  appears,  however,  that  when 
he  returned  my  visit,  though  still  "  haggard  and  woe- 


158  Auiobiograjyhy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

begone,  he  grumbled  agreeably  enough  for  an  hour  or 
two." 

More  visits  were  exchanged,  and  I  had  a  good  deal 
more  to  say  of  them  to  Alice  than  it  is  worth  while  to 
put  in  print.  The  Tennyson  children  pleased  me  much : 
"I  am  sure  you  would  think  them  very  engaging  creat- 
ures, gentle  and  social."  And  the  Camerons'  children 
pleased  me  no  less.  Then  comes  the  wife  of  a  neighbor- 
ing squire,  "  very  kind,  and  full  of  vegetables  and  flow- 
ers, a  simple,  good  gentlewoman,  who  was  seized  with  an 
ardent  admiration  of  four  heads  of  girls  painted  on  the 
lids  of  four  French  milliners'  boxes  on  Mrs.  Cameron's 
table,  in  the  style  of  vignettes  to  sheets  of  popular  music. 
Mrs.  Cameron  gave  them  to  her,  and  she  seemed  to  think 
that  they  were  treasures ;  and  Mrs.  Cameron  seemed  to 
feel  like  a  person  who  has  passed  off  base  coin.  But  they 
are  treasures  to  her,  because  the  faces  are  beauty  to  her: 
and  perhaps  she  has  more  pleasure  in  that  beauty  than  we 
have  in  a  Raffaello  or  a  Fra  Angelico.  Better  to  have  en- 
joyment without  discernment  than  discernment  without 
enjoyment ;  and  how  often  the  choice  seems  to  lie  be- 
tween the  two !" 

I  had  given  some  account  of  a  Captain  and  Mrs.  B , 

just  married,  and  now  they  reappear:  "Then  came  the 
bride,  sadly  at  a  loss  to  know  how  she  was  to  make  a 
glass  of  lemonade  for  the  sick  bridegroom.  Then  Alfred 
Tennyson,  brought  by  surprise  face  to  face  with  the  bride, 
repeating  two  complimentary  sentences  to  Mrs.  Cameron's 
dictation,  and  then  flying  after  his  scattered  senses,  very 
cross  at  having  been  thrown  in  the  way  of  such  a  difti- 

culty." 

The  2d  of  June  was  Alice's  birthday,  and  of  course  on 
that  day  I  was  to  have  been  at  home.  But,  in  my  state 
of  health,  I  was  unavoidably  servile  to  the  Aveather:   "I 


''Freshwater  Bay.  159 

know  not  how  it  is  with  you  and  your  lilacs,"  I  wrote,  on 
the  3d  June,  "  but  here  the  storm  is  both  more  violent 
and  longer-lasting  than  that  of  a  week  ago.  I  was  glad 
that  the  weather  yesterday  should  be  so  far  decided  as  to 
leave  you  in  no  doubt  as  to  what  I  would  do;  but  such  a 
tempest  as  this  is  enough  to  put  you  and  me  out  of  both 
our  heads,  and  make  us  think  only  of  those  who  are  oc- 
cupying their  business  on  the  great  waters.  What  to- 
morrow may  bring  forth  remains  to  be  seen,  and  I  hardly 
expect  that  such  a  disturbance  of  the  elements  can  sub- 
side so  soon.  A  wonderful  day  to  be  the  2d  of  June  and 
your  birthday.  One  w^ould  think  it  had  been  the  birth- 
day of  the  prince  of  the  powers  of  the  air,  and  that  those 
powers  had  kept  it  after  their  ungracious  fashion  by  get- 
ting drunk  and  fighting.  It  is  strange  that  I  am  no  worse 
for  it.  .  .  .  Alfred  Tennyson  came  in  the  morning  in  an 
agreeable  mood,  though  it  xcas  in  the  morning.  His 
agreeable  moods  are  generally  in  the  evening.  After  I 
was  in  bed,  Mrs.  Cameron  w^rapped  a  shawl  round  her 
head  and  went  down  to  the  beach,  and,  finding  a  most  mag- 
nificent state  of  things  there,  she  sent  for  Alfred,  who 
joined  her,  and  whom  she  left  to  make  the  most  of  it.  He 
seems  to  be  independent  of  weather.  Mrs.  Cameron  says 
that  in  one  of  the  great  storms  of  this  year  he  walked  all 
along  the  coast  to  the  Needles,  which  is  six  miles  off. 
With  all  his  shattered  nerves  and  uneasy  gloom  he  seems 
to  have  some  sorts  of  strength  and  hardihood.     There  is 

a  great  deal  in  him  that  is  like .     But  his  tenderness 

is  more  genuine,  as  well  as  his  simplicity ;  and  he  has  no 
hostilities  and  is  never  active  as  against  people.  He  only 
grumbles.  .  .  .  He  says  he  does  not  like  '  St.  Clement's 
Eve '  so  well  as  *  Philip  Van  Artevelde,'  but  that  per- 
haps it  stands  second.  He  wants  a  story  to  treat,  being 
full  of  poetry,  with  nothing  to  put  it  in." 


160  AutoUorjrcqyIty  of  Henry  Taylor. 

There  was  storm  upon  storm,  "  windows  rattling  all 
niglit  like  dead  men's  bones,"  so  that  my  departure  was 
again  delayed;  but  I  had  the  consolation  of  learning  that 
the  children  had  been  grievously  disappointed  when  the  car- 
riage which  had  gone  to  the  station  to  bring  me  came  back 
empty,  and  that  the  four-year-old  baby  had  sobbed  aloud. 

It  was  in  this  year,  I  think,  that  Mrs.  Cameron  wrote  an 
undated  letter  in  which  mention  is  made  of  Tennyson : 
"Alfred  talked  very  pleasantly  that  evening  to  Annie 

Thackeray  and  L S .     He  spoke  of  Jane  Austen, 

as  James  Spedding  does,  as  next  to  Shakespeare  !  I  can 
never  imagine  what  they  mean  when  they  say  such  things. 
Alfred  has  grown,  he  says,  much  fonder  of  you  since  your 
two  last  visits  here.  He  says  he  feels  now  he  is  begin- 
ning to  know  you  and  not  to  feel  afraid  of  you,  and  that 
he  is  beginning  to  get  over  your  extreme  insolence  to  him 
when  he  was  young  and  you  were  in  your  meridian  splen- 
dor and  glory.  So  one  reads  your  simplicity.  He  was 
very  violent  with  the  girls  on  the  subject  of  the  rage  for 
autographs.  He  said  he  believed  every  crime  and  every 
vice  in  the  world  was  connected  with  the  passion  for  au- 
tographs and  anecdotes  and  records;  that  the  desiring  an- 
ecdotes and  acquaintance  with  the  lives  of  great  men  Avaa 
treating  them  like  pigs,  to  be  ripped  open  for  the  public; 
that  he  knew  he  himself  should  be  ripped  open  like  a  pig; 
that  he  thanked  God  Almighty  with  his  whole  heart  and 
soul  that  he  knew  nothing,  and  that  the  world  knew  noth- 
ing, of  Shakespeare  but  his  writings;  and  that  he  thanked 
God  Almighty  that  he  knew  nothing  of  Jane  Austen,  and 
that  there  were  no  letters  preserved  either  of  Shake- 
speare's or  of  Jane  Austen's;  that  they  had  not  been 
ripped  open  like  pigs.  Then  he  said  that  the  post  for 
two  days  had  brought  him  no  letters,  and  that  he  thought 
there  was  a  sort  of  syncope  in  the  world  as  to  him  and  to 


Freshwater  Bay.  161 

his  fame.     I  told  him  of  the  mad  worship  of  Swinburne, 

of ,  the  Pre-Raphaelite,  saying  that  Swinburne  was 

greater  than  Shelley  or  Tennyson  or  Wordsworth." 

In  1862  the  positions  were  changed.  Alice  and  the 
children  were  in  a  house  which  she  took  at  Freshwater 
Bay,  I  at  East  Sheen;  and  it  was  Alice's  turn  to  write 
about  all  that  happened.  (I7th  April,  1862)  "Alfred  came 
down  to  see  me  yesterday,  and  was  very  cordial  in  invit- 
ing me  up  to  his  garret.  He  really  does  look  a  very 
grand  man;  and  I  think  I  should  still  be  disposed  to  fol- 
low after  him  as  before.  He  has  all  the  charm  of  a  little 
child  as  well  as  that  of  a  great  man,  and  that  deep  voice 
of  his  is  very  music  tome."  And  on  another  day:  "I 
went  to  Farringford  and  sat  awhile  with  Mrs,  Tennyson, 
and  then  he  asked  me  to  go  up  to  his  attics,  and  when  I 
had  said  all  I  had  to  say  about  the  beauty  of  his  views 
(not  quite  enough  to  satisfy  him,  though,  for  I  liked  one 
view — his  own — much  the  best,  and  he  growled  out, '  How 
very  odd  you  are;  one  view  is  just  as  fine  as  the  other'), 
he  took  me  all  over  his  place,  which  is  really  very  lovely, 
and  he  was  very  kind  and  cordial,  though  full  of  com- 
plaints of  the  wickedness  of  mankind  in  general,  and  the 
special  wickedness  of  the  islanders  who  look  at  him  and 
pick  his  cowslips  ;  cordial  to  the  girls,  too,  though  he 
heard  me  encourage  them  to  fill  their  basket  from  his 
woods."  Next  comes  an  expedition  to  Alum  Bay:  "The 
day  glorious,  as  fresh  as  it  was  bright;  the  sea  creeping 
gently  up  the  sands,  and  the  sky,  deep  in  color  and  yet  as 
clear  as  an  Italian  sky,  bending  over  the  beautiful  line  of 
exquisitely  tinted  cliffs,  Avith  their  outline  so  fine  in  its 
simplicity.  I  doubt  whether  anything  has  ever  charmed 
me  more.  Mrs.  Cameron  was  sorry  that  the  sea  was  so 
calm.  She  thought  I  should  have  found  it  grander  in  a 
storm.     But  I  think  she  is  wrong.     The  scene  being  in 


103  Aiitdbiograjphy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

itself  one  of  such  power  and  simplicity  and  force,  it  was 
all  the  grander  for  its  stillness.  AVhere  power  makes 
itself  ye/^  it  is  sometimes  better  unspoken." 

Where  one  celebrated  man  sets  up  his  rest,  there  will  al- 
ways be  other  celebrities  coming  and  going.  Alice  came 
across  one  who  became  afterwards  a  very  kind  and  con- 
stant friend.  (23d  April)  "  Mrs.  Cameron  and  I  went  to 
tea  with  Mr.  Jowett,  to  me  a  most  agreeable  man.  He 
looks  so  wise  and  gentle  and  happy,  and  so  simple,  ...  I 
was  glad  to  go,  but  I  felt  very  shy  too,  as  I  always  do 
when  I  am  in  society  with  Mrs.  Cameron.  She  steers  ; 
and  so  oddly  and  so  boldly  that  I  always  expect  to  find  my- 
self stuck  in  a  quicksand  or  broken  against  a  rock.  ...  I 
left  Harry,  by  invitation,  with  the  little  Tennyson  boys, 
who  are  really  noble  specimens  of  beauty  and  vigor;  the 
younger  one  a  very  vision  of  beauty  —  very  like  Brinsley 
Norton's  beautiful  child." 

And  the  Cameron  boys  were  not  less  goodly  in  her 
sight:  "Ewen,  the  most  agreeable  of  youths,  gay,  easy, 
and  sweet-tempered,  wuth  a  good  word  for  every  man, 
woman,  girl,  baby,  or  dog;  and  the  two  little  boys,  as  re- 
fined and  tender  as  girls." 

They  came  every  second  evening  to  play  games  with 
her  own  children,  while  she  sat  in  the  chimney-corner 
w^ith  her  favorite  Robertson's  sermons,  "  setting  his  wis- 
dom to  the  tune  of  their  gay  laughter,  and  liking  it  all  the 
better  so  set." 

In  the  June  following,  Alice  had  gone  to  Bournemouth 
to  prepare  the  way  for  me,  and  it  was  my  turn  to  write 
from  Freshwater  Bay  (15th  June,  1862):  "We  dined  at 
the  Tennysons'  yesterday,  and  in  the  evening  he  read  us 
his  new  poem — a  story  (said  to  be  true)  Avhich  Woolner 
had  read  in  the  diary  of  a  lady  who  was  his  fellow-passen- 
ger in  a  voyage  to  Australia.     It  is  a  very  powerful  poem, 


Tennyson'' s  New  Poem.  163 

of  the  genus  'Michael.'  The  fault  of  the  subject,  if  not 
of  the  treatment,  was  illustrated  by  its  effect  upon  one  of 

the  audience,  Mrs.  J ,     After  an  hour  and  a  half,  and 

when  the  end  was  near,  she  went  into  hysterics.  The 
poem  is  too  purely  painful,  the  pain  not  being  the  rich  and 
pleasing  pain  which  poetry  ought  to  produce.  It  is  not 
so  colored  and  glorified  by  imaginative  power  as  to  exalt 
the  reader  above  his  terrestrial  distress.  It  is,  however, 
one  more  variety  of  the  manifestation  of  Tennyson's 
genius,  and  it  may  be  well  that  he  should  have  so  written 
upon  such  a  theme;  and  I  think  that,  if  he  were  to  regard 
the  poem  as  I  regard  it,  he  might  do  much  to  enrich  and 
soften  the  effect.  Mrs.  Tennyson  must  be  much  stronger 
than  she  was  when  you  were  here.  She  was  looking  less 
fragile  than  I  recollect  to  have  seen  her  look  before,  and 
very  pretty  and  tender  and  interesting." 

And  now  no  more  of  Freshwater  Bay  for  the  present, 
except  this — that  I  was  photographed,  I  think,almost  every 
day,  and  the  photographs  being  sent  to  Alice,  her  opin- 
ion was  more  flattering  to  them  than  to  me :  "  I  like  all  ex- 
cept one  of  the  little  ones;  and  most  of  them  I  think  very 
grand  ;  decidedly  grander  than  anything  you  have  yet 
written  or  lived;  so  I  begin  to  expect  great  things  of  you." 

There  is  a  feature  of  my  life,  conspicuous  in  these  pho- 
tographs, which  dates  from  this  period,  and  the  impor- 
tance of  which  far  be  it  from  me  to  underrate.  This  is 
my  beard.  In  1859  my  hand  was  so  liable  to  be  shaken 
by  asthmatic  spasms  that  the  razor  was  not  safe  in  it,  and 
was  laid  by.  In  the  last  days  of  that  year  I  notified  in  a 
letter  to  one  of  my  girl  friends  the  small  beginnings  of 
what  was  so  soon  to  be  developed  into  the  phenomenon 
presented  by  Mrs.  Cameron's  art  in  multiform  impersona- 
tions of  King  David,  King  Lear,  and  all  sorts  of 
"  Kings,  princes,  prelates,  potentates,  and  peers." 


164  Autobiography  of  Jlenry  Taylor. 

But  magnificence  to  come  is  not  often  recognized  in  its 
germs,  and  so  it  seems  to  have  been  with  my  beard. 

"  When,"  I  inquired,  "  oh,  when  will  these  bristles  pass 
into  hairs  so  that  I  may  cease  to  be  a  hog?  Considera- 
tions connected  with  my  personal  apjicarance  cannot  but 
suggest  such  questions  from  time  to  time,  not  unattended 
by  doubts  as  to  what  may  be  the  ultimate  effect,  especially 
as  some  ladies,  hitherto  unaccustomed  to  thorny  ways  and 
prickly  predicaments,  have  been  heard  to  swear  that  they 
will  never  kiss  me  again.  I  will  not  mention  their  names 
unless  compelled  to  do  so,  because,  little  as  I  i-espect  their 
daintiness,  I  am  above  exposing  them.  And  though  it 
is  not  in  human  nature  to  be  insensible  to  such  things,  yet 
I  assure  you  that  I  indulge  in  no  vain  repinings,  and  am 
on  the  whole  a  good  and  happy  hog." 

And  in  a  letter  of  later  date  the  subject  is  resumed: 

"  You  inquire  of  the  color.     Alas,  M ,  Avhite,  white  as 

Appalachia's  snows!  What  ca?i  be  the  reason?  The  cruel- 
ties of  women,  I  think.  In  the  case  of  Carlyle's  beard 
(which,  however,  is  only  grizzled)  the  effect  may  be  ac- 
counted for  by  time  and  a  lifelong  struggle  with  the  nat- 
ure of  things,  and  hence  it  has  come  to  be  known  by  the 

name  of  'Wormwood  Scrubbs.'     In  the  case  of  's 

there  are  eight  daughters,  of  whom  the  eldest  two  have 
reached  the  age  at  which  filial  ingratitude  is  fully  devel- 
oped, and  his  has  therefore  been  not  unfitly  designated 
*  The  Regan-Goneril.'  But  for  the  whiteness  of  mine  I  can 
think  of  no  other  cause  than  that  I  have  mentioned;  and 
I  should  be  much  obliged  to  you  if,  in  concert  with  any  of 
those  about  you  v/hom  you  may  think  most  competent  to 
give  advice,  you  would  consider  what  name  should  be 
given  to  it.  '  The  Flower  of  Love  Lies  Blanching,'  seems 
not  inappropriate.  Perhaps  the  'Swan  of  Venus 'may 
occur  to  you;  but  to  this  I  should  object,  because  that  bird 


^My  Beard.  165 

is  nearly  related  to  another  of  whom  it  is  enough  to  say 
that  it  is  altogether  unworthy  to  be  brought  into  connec- 
tion with  the  subject.  Indeed,  I  have  always  thought  that 
the  ancient  poets  and  mythologists  had  a  sinister  and 
malicious  'reference  to  this  relationship  when  they  pro- 
vided the  goddess  in  question  with  means  of  conveyance. 
Not  the  'Swan  of  Venus'  therefore.  Had  it  been  twenty 
years  later  I  might  by  that  time  have  sung  my  *Vixi 
,Puellis,'and  I  could  have  called  it  the  'Flag  of  Truce;' 
but  it  is  unwise  to  anticijiate  the  evil  day.  There  is  al- 
ways a  charm  in  simplicity,  and,  perhaps,  after  all,  the 
purest  taste  would  dictate  the  appellation  of  '  Mr.  White.' 
I  throw  out  these  hints;  but  you  are  not  only  well-judging, 
you  are  also  full  of  graceful  fancies;  and  I  shall  take  no 
decision  till  I  hear  from  you." 

And  now  I  trust  posterity  will  pardon  me  if  I  am  unable 
to  find  room  for  further  particulars  concerning  my  beard. 


Chapter  XV. 

DEALINGS  WITH  LIFE  IN  ITS  DECLINE.— SONNET  BY  AUBREY 
DE  VERE.— SPEDDING'S  "LIFE  AND  LETTERS  OF  LORD  BACON." 
—Ills  ESTIMATE  OF  "ST.  CLEMENTS  EVE." 

Anno  Dom.  18CI-G3.     Anno  ^Et.  G1-C3. 

With  "St.  Clement's  Eve  "  I  Lad  come  to  an  end  of  my 
poetical  life,  and  the  end  was  not  premature.  Archbishop 
Whately  had  exhorted  me  to  make  an  end  of  it  some  years 
before.  The  archbishop's  well-known  gifts  in  the  way  of 
wit  are  an  evidence  that  one  sort  of  imagination  was  not 
wanting  in  him.  But  to  poetry,  with  the  single  exception 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott's,  he  avowed  himself  to  be  insensible. 
He  overvalued  my  prose,  however,  as  much  as  he  de- 
preciated my  poetry;  telling  me  that  a  resuscitated  Bacon 
had  something  else  to  do  than  write  verses,  and  that  I  was 
to  leave  that  to  the  women. 

I  did  not  agree  with  the  archbishoj)  in  his  estimates; 
I  did  not  think  ill  of  my  own  poetry,  any  more  than  ex- 
travagantly well  of  my  own  prose;  and  as  to  poetry  in  it- 
self, I  rather  went  along  with  Landor :  "  We  often  hear," 
he  says,  "that  such  or  such  a  thing  is  not  worth  an  old 
song,     Alas!  how  few  things  are!" 

From  a  letter,  however,  written  in  1858  (7th  Septem- 
ber), it  appears  that  even  then  I  had  held  myself  to  have 
reached  the  time  of  life  when  the  fate  of  Bellerophon 
might  be  expected  to  attend  any  further  flights:  "I  often 
think  what  a  gift  it  is  to  be  able  to  overvalue  what  onfi 
writes  " — I  was  alluding  to  the  advantages  of  practice  de- 


Life  hi  its  Decline.  167 

rived  in  youth  from  writing  poems  which  I  should  not 
have  written  had  I  valued  them  at  no  more  than  they 
were  worth;  "It  is  partly  the  loss  of  this  gift  (natural  at 
my  time  of  life)  which  deprives  me  of  the  power  or  desire 
to  write  more.  It  is  the  gain  of  a  loss;  for  that  I  should 
write  more  is  far  from  desirable." 

I  did  not  abide  by  the  judgment  I  had  then  formed  of 
the  decay  of  my  powers,  and  I  do  not  myself  perceive  any 
token  of  their  decay  in  "St.  Clement's  Eve;"  but  I  dare 
say  it  was  well  to  stop  there.  Certainly,  in  the  years  that 
followed,  my  poetry  could  not  have  been  continued  in  con- 
junction with  my  official  occupations;  and  I  regarded  the 
official  as  better  fitted  than  the  poetical  to  fill  up  blanks 
in  the  latter  years  of  life. 

Touching  these  blanks,  I  had  something  to  say  when  re- 
plying, in  18G2,  to  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Ed^^;ard  Villiers,  in 
which  she  had  given  expression  to  some  natural  regrets 
for  the  loss  of  youth :  "  I  should  be  glad  of  a  long  letter 
from  you,  though  it  Avere  written  with  a  raven's  quill.  I 
quite  agree  with  you  that  it  is  very  disagreeable  to  grow 
old;  and  I  have  always  thought  that  if  i" had  been  Provi' 
dence  I  would  have  made  life  begin  with  dotage  and  de- 
crepitude, and  go  on  freshening  and  improving  to  a  primal 
death.  But  as  I  am  an  humble  individual  and  not  Provi- 
dence, I  make  up  my  mind  to  things  as  they  are.  .  .  . 
When  one  talks  of  one's  self  one  never  knows  where  to 
stop.  But  now  as  to  yoi«'self,  past  and  present.  Youth 
is  dead  and  gone  at  eight-and-twenty,  and  one  may  lament 
it  for  a  year  or  two  then;  but  at  thirty  it  is  time  to  go 
out  of  mourning.  And  after  fifty,  one  no  more  desires  to 
be  young  than  to  be  the  Archangel  Michael  or  Mr.  Wil- 
berf  orce  or  Frank  Charteris  or  Henry  YIII.  One  does  not 
desire  it  because  one  cannot  conceive  it.  The  past  is  so 
long  past  that  it  is  past  being  a  subject  for  regret;  and  as 


168  Axdobiograjpliy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

to  the  future,  one  has  to  look  forward  to  losing  one's  eyes 
and  cars  and  brains  and  some  of  the  powers  of  one's 
stomach,  but  one  has  not  the  loss  of  youth  to  look  forward 
to,  and  that  is  one  source  of  sadness  removed.  And  to 
me  it  used  to  be,  thirty  or  forty  years  ago,  a  chief  source 
of  sadness:  for  I  was  very  fond  of  my  youth,  and  cared 
more  for  it  than  for  eyes,  ears,  brains,  stomach,  and  all  the 
rest.  Now  they  have  a  fair  share  of  my  regard,  and  I 
shall  be  sorry  for  their  decay.  But  when  you  contrast 
your  case  with  mine,  inasmuch  as  I  live  in  a  land  of 
dreams  and  you  among  realities,  I  think  you  make  too 
muchjof  my  imagination  as  a  resource.  It  is  true  that 
from  time  to  time  I  join  a  party  of  phantoms,  and  find 
them  pleasant  to  live  with  on  the  whole,  though  they 
sometimes  give  me  a  good  deal  of  trouble  and  at  other 
times  wear  my  nerves  a  little.  But  my  main  resource  is 
in  my  business.  Acting  to  a  purpose  with  steadiness  and 
regularity  is  the  best  support  to  the  sj^irits  and  the  surest 
protection  against  sad  thoughts.  Realities  can  contend 
with  realities  better  than  phantoms  can;  and  you  have  re- 
alities to  occupy  you  as  Avell  as  I.  For  the  rest,  Sydney 
Smith's  precept  is,  'Take  short  views  of  life.'  I  had  felt 
the  same  thing  when  I  said  that 

'foresight  is  a  melancholy  gift, 
Which  bares  the  bald  and  speeds  the  all-too-swift.' 

To  invest  one's  personal  interests  in  the  day  that  is  pass- 
ing, and  to  project  one's  future  interests  into  the  children 
that  are  growing  up,  is  the  true  policy  of  self-love  in  the 
decline  of  life;  and  as  commendable  a  policy  as  it  is  in  the 
nature  of  self-love  to  adopt.  Of  other  love  it  is  not  for 
me  to  speak;  but  you  may  find  something  worth  saying 
in  a  sonnet  of  Aubrey  de  Vere's: 

"  *  Sad  is  our  youth,  for  it  is  ever  going, 

Crumbling  and  crushed  beneath  our  very  feet; 


Speddhu/s  ''Life  of  Bacon ."  169 

Sad  is  our  life,  for  onward  it  is  flowing 

In  current  unj)erceived  because  so  fleet ; 

Sad  are  our  hopes,  for  tliey  were  sweet  in  sowing, 

But  tares,  self-sown,  iiave  overtopped  the  wheat ; 

Sad  are  our  joys,  for  they  were  sweet  in  blowing. 

And  still,  oh  still,  their  dying  breath  is  sweet : 

And  sweet  is  youth,  altho'  it  hath  bereft  us 

Of  much  that  made  our  childhood  sweeter  still ; 

And  sweet  is  middle  life,  for  it  hath  left  us 

A  nearer  good  to  cure  an  older  ill ; 

And  sweet  are  all  things  when  we  learn  to  prize  them. 

Not  for  their  sake,  but  Ilis  who  grants  them  or  denies  tiiem.' 

"  And  now  God  bless  you,  and  do  not  think  I  care  for  you 
less  because  I  am  a  young  fellow  and  you  are  getting  old." 

The  event  of  1861  was  the  publication  of  the  first  two 
volumes  of  the  "Life  and  Letters  of  Lord  Bacon."  I 
wrote  of  it  to  Lady  Mary  (23d  May):  "I  have  been  read- 
ing Spedding's  '  Life  of  Bacon  '  with  profound  interest 
and  admiration — admiration,  not  of  the  perfect  style  and 
penetrating  judgment  only,  but  also  of  the  extraordinary 
labor  bestowed  upon  the  work  by  a  lazy  man;  the  labor 
of  some  twenty  years,  I  believe,  spent  in  rummaging 
among  old  records  in  all  places  where  they  were  to  be 
found,  and  collating  different  copies  of  MSS.  written  in 
the  handwriting  of  the  sixteenth  century,  and  noting  the 
minutest  variations  of  one  from  another — an  inexpressibly 
tedious  kind  of  drudgery — and,  what  was  perhaps  still 
worse,  searching  far  and  wide,  waiting,  watching,  peering, 
prying,  through  long  years  for  records  which  no  industry 
could  recover.  I  doubt  whether  there  be  any  other  ex- 
ample in  literary  history  of  so  large  an  intellect  as  Sped- 
ding's devoting  itself  with  so  much  self-sacrifice  to  the 
illustration  of  one  which  was  larger  still;  and  doing  so 
out  of  reverence,  not  so  much  for  that  largest  intellect  as 
for  the  truth  concerning  it." 

ir.— 8 


170  Auioh'iography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

A  gift  of  the  volumes  published  in  1862  is  thus  ac- 
knowledged by  Carlyle: 

"Dear  Spedding, — I  have  been  in  the  ^ Bacon''  up  and 
down — a  fine  placid  daylight  attending  me  everywhere, 
disclosing  curious  old  scenes  in  their  now  more  or  less 
ruined  condition;  and  trust  to  read  it  all  with  complete 
deliberation  one  day,  were  I  out  of  my  own  Serbonian 
bog,  and  safe  on  dry  land  again,  for  a  little  time  more. 
You  are  much  to  be  envied  with  the  goal  now  in  view  to 
such  a  pilgrimage  as  few  or  none  in  our  day  have  made. 
A  more  honestly  done  bit  of  work  I  do  not  anywhere 
know;  and  in  these  times  I  may  further  call  it  unique  in 
that  respect,  and  almost  miraculous  in  contrast  Avith  the 
beautiful  creatures  we  everywhere  see  busy  in  the  DevWs 
dust  line,  which  is  a  much  more  compendious  one.  Cour- 
age! I  hope  we  shall  live  to  get  out,  both  of  us,  in  not 
many  months  now — and  will  not  that  be  a  'reward'  like 
no  other. 

"I  prize  my  copy  very  much  and  keep  it  as  a  memorial, 
salutary  and  dear  to  me  in  a  good  many  respects.  With 
thanks,  and  Euge,  yours 'sincerely.  T.  Caklyle." 

Fourteen  years  more  of  labor  were  to  follow,  and  five 
more  volumes.  And  his  heroic  perseverance  had  to  main- 
tain itself  against  divers  discouragements.  As  long  as 
books  last  and  philosophy  is  cared  for,  and  there  are  hu- 
man beings  who  care  to  investigate  human  intellect  and 
human  nature  in  one  of  its  most  wonderful  manifestations, 
the  most  elaborate  and  authentic,  and  I  will  say  also  im- 
partial, life  of  Lord  Bacon  will  be  read  by  the  studious 
and  highly  cultivated  classes  in  each  generation.  But 
these  are  the  fcv;,  and  popularity  is  not  to  be  expected  for 
biographies  such  as  these.     To  the  popular  mind,  impai-- 


Spedding's  ^''Life  of  Bacon.''''  171 

tiality  is  not  interesting.  A  story  told  by  a  bold  and 
vigorous  partisan,  fastening  upon  the  features  and  inci- 
dents which  are  sure  to  take  effect,  finding  no  difficulties, 
or,  if  finding  them,  keeping  them  sedulously  out  of  sight, 
rounding  off  everything  into  a  factitious  clearness  and 
consistency — such  a  story  of  a  life  will  have  a  much  bet- 
ter chance  of  popular  acceptance  than  the  other. 

Popularity,  therefore,  had  never  been  in  question;  and, 
in  so  far  as  some  of  the  facts  he  presented  ran  counter  to 
long-established  misconceptions  and  prejudices,  there  was 
perhaps  an  clement  of  wwpopularity.  But,  in  some  cases, 
not  popular  sympathy  only,  but  the  sympathy  of  personal 
friends,  was  found  wanting;  and  that,  not  from  dissent  or 
opposition  in  opinion,  but  from  simjDle  indifference  and 
neglect.  One  of  them  so  far  misconceived  the  situation 
as  to  congratulate  him  on  this  publication  of  the  first  two 
volumes  as  the  completion  of  his  task,  kindly  exhorting 
him  to  undertake  another.  This  he  mentioned  in  a  letter 
to  me,  adding  that,  if  he  "  had  not  known  all  that  long 
ago,  and  digested  all  that  it  implied,"  he  should  have 
thought  it  discouraging.  "  But,"  he  added,  "  I  have  long 
been  awai'C  that  to  ninety-nine  hundredths  of  the  reading 
public,  including  about  nine  tenths  of  my  own  particular 
friends,  the  most  satisfactory  intelligence  M'ith  regard  to 
my  immortal  work  would  be  that  there  is  no  more  to 
come,  and  that  I  might  have  made  that  announcement  at 
the  end  of  any  volume  without  danger  of  detection.  .  .  . 
In  the  vote  upon  the  question  whether  my  idea  of  Bacon's 
character  is  the  right  one  I  have  always  expected  a  large 
majority  against  me;  and,  indeed,  for  that  matter,  I  care 
very  little  how  it  goes.  All  I  want  is,  that  those  who 
would  sympathize  with  me  if  they  heard  the  story  rightly 
told,  should  not  be  prevented  by  hearing  it  told  wrong." 

I  think  that  had  he  duly  estimated  the  warmth  of  the 


173  Autobiogra])}iy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

interest  taken  in  tlio  Avovk  l)y  some — and  those  not  a  few 
— he  would  have  found  that  it  more  than  made  up  for  the 
indifference  of  otliei's.  I  asked  him  to  send  me  any  letters 
lie  miglit  receive  on  the  subject,  and  he  sent  me  some 
which  I  found  very  much  what  I  wished  to  find  them ; 
but  in  sending  them  he  said  (April,  1862):  "  I  do  not  en- 
courage my  friends  to  talk  to  me  about  my  own  perform- 
ances, except  where  they  have  objections  to  make.  If  you 
hit,  you  do  not  want  praise;  if  you  miss,  praise  won't  mend 
it.  Tlie  question  is,  Avhether  people  "who  care  about  the 
subject,  but  do  not  care  about  me,  find  the  book  interest- 
ing; and  the  proof  of  that  will  be  seen  in  the  reading, 
even  as  of  the  pudding  in  the  eating." 

My  answer  was:  "I  return  the  letters,  some  of  which 
are  interesting  enougli.  I  do  not  agree  with  you  about 
praise.     I  like  it." 

There  are,  of  course,  divers  forms  of  praise  to  which 
little  or  no  value  can  be  attached.  But  praise,  in  esse  or 
in  posse,  of  the  kind  that  expresses  sympathy  and  gives 
assurance  of  effectiveness,  can  hardly  be  dispensed  with, 
even  by  the  most  self-reliant  and  self-sustained  laborer  in 
an  arduous  and  lifelong  endeavor.  I  think  that,  for  a 
year  or  two,  the  want  of  immediate  and  conspicuous  re- 
sults from  the  efforts  of  twenty  years  was  not  wholly  un- 
felt,  and  the  signs  of  it  gave  me  much  concern. 

*'  James  Spedding  Avas  here  on  Sunday,"  I  wrote  (22d 
December,  1863),  "  and  I  had  a  good  deal  of  talk  with  him 
about  his  '  Bacon;'  and  in  the  night,  that  is,  at  three  in  the 
morning,  a  melancholy,  black  as  charcoal,  came  over  me, 
and  I  did  not  know  whether  it  "was  owing  to  some  char- 
coal biscuits  which  I  had  eaten  by  Mrs.  Cameron's  advice, 
to  cure  indigestion,  or  to  my  conversation  with  Spedding; 
but  the  subject  which  my  melancholy  fixed  upon  was  the 
decline  and  fall  of  Spedding's  interest  in  that  great  labor 


Sjpedding' s  '■'-  Ufe  of  BaconP  173 

of  his  life;  for  he  says  tliat  it  has  lasted  too  lon^:,  and  that 
the  delusion  of  its  value  has  worn  itself  out,  and  that 
he  no  longer  persuades  himself  that  it  signifies  greatly 
whether  he  makes  good  the  truth  about  Bacon  or  not; 
and  that  his  eyes  and  his  memory  are  no  longer  what  they 
were,  and  both  research  and  composition  are  irksome  to 
him.  All  this  he  said  in  a  cheerful  tone,  but  it  was  pro- 
foundly mournful  to  me." 

The  cheerfulness  and  the  easy  animation  with  which  he 
could  treat  of  the  supposed  decay  of  his  powers  may  be 
seen  in  some  verses  which  he  called 

"  Thk  Antiquity  of  Man  :  A  Poem  by  Uncle  James. 

1. 

When  I  was  a  fieshman  old  age  did  appear 

A  reverend  and  beantiful  thing ; 
For  knowledge  must  gather  as  j'ear  follows  year, 

And  wisdom  from  knowledge  should  spring, 
ir. 
But  I  found  the  same  years  which  supplied  me  with  knowledge 

Took  the  power  to  digest  it  away ; 
And  let  out  all  the  store  I  had  gathered  at  college 

Through  leaks  that  increased  every  day. 
III. 
So  I  said  it,  and  think  not  I  said  it  in  jest, 

For  you'll  find  it  is  true  to  a  letter, 
That  the  only  thing  old  people  ought  to  know  best 

Is  that  young  people  ought  to  know  better." 

Whatever  truth  there  may  be  in  this  as  a  general  prop- 
osition, he  found  himself  after  a  year  or  so  of  rest  visited 
by  a  revival  of  the  old  ardor,  and  the  eyes  and  the  mem- 
ory proved  themselves  not  unequal  to  twelve  or  thirteen 
years  more  of  their  long-enduring  and  not  easily  exhaust- 
ible efforts.  The  labors  of  more  than  thirty  years 
reached  their  completion  in  1874,  and  the  tnith  of  fact, 
fact  developed  from  Bacon's  life  and  fact  throwing  light 


174  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

upon  it,  was  presented  to  mankind  in  all  its  length  and 
breadth  and  height  and  depth,  leaving  it  to  the  justice  of 
mankind  to  arrive  at  such  truth  of  inference  as  long- 
established  prepossessions  might  permit. 

The  work  closes  with  a  recapitulation  of  the  testi- 
monies borne  to  Bacon's  virtues  by  those  who  saw  him 
nearest  in  his  private  life,  adding,  "  But  if  Bacon  himself 
had  been  called  on  to  pronounce  judgment  on  himself,  I 
fancy  that  he  would  have  been  content  with  some  such 
character  as  Sir  Henry  Taylor  puts  into  the  mouth  of 
Isaac  Comnenus,  describing  his  own: 

'Yet  is  lie  in  sad  tiulli  a  faulty  man  ; 
In  slavish,  tyrannous,  and  turbulent  times 
He  drew  his  lot  of  life,  and  of  the  times 
Some  deep  and  bloody  stains  have  fallen  upon  him ; 
But  be  it  said  he  had  this  honesty. 
That,  undesirous  of  a  false  renown, 
lie  ever  wished  to  pass  for  what  he  was ; 
One  that  swen-ed  much  and  oft,  but  being  still 
Deliberately  bent  upon  the  riglit 
Had  kept  it  in  the  main  ;  one  that  much  loved 
Whate'er  in  man  is  worthy  high  respect, 
And  in  his  soul  devoutly  did  asjjire 
To  be  it  all ;  yet  felt  from  time  to  time 
The  littleness  that  clings  to  what  is  human, 
And  safTered  from  the  shame  of  having  felt  it.'" 

Spedding's  sentiments  about  praise  had  apparently  been 
in  full  possession  of  him  when  I  read  "  St.  Clement's 
Eve  "  to  him  and  Mr.  Forster  ;  for  he  expressed  no  ap- 
probation of  it.  This  was  not  satisfactory  to  Alice;  and 
it  would  seem  that  her  dissatisfaction  came  round  to  him 
through  Mrs.  Cameron  ;  for  "  Mrs.  Cameron  met  him  at 
dinner  the  day  before  yesterday,"  I  wrote,  1st  March,  1862, 
"  and  the  unhappy  critic  was  copipelled  to  declare  that 
he  thought  the  play  beautiful  —  inferior  to  'Van  Arte- 


Criticism  on  ^'■St.  Clemenfs  Eve?'  175 

velde '  only  inasmuch  as  it  ■svas  shorter,  and  if  not  better 
than  the  'Virgin  Widow,'  only  not  belter  because  the 
'Virgin  Widow '  was  the  best  comedy  that  had  been  pro- 
duced since  Shakespeare.  Either  he  said  this  to  Mrs. 
Cameron,  or  she  was  enabled  to  persuade  herself  that  he 
had  said  it;  and  the  female  mind  in  these  parts  is  tran- 
quil." 

My  own  mind  was  not  quite  so,  and  I  wrote  to  him, 
28th  February:  "From  what  I  hear,  I  am  afraid  you 
have  been  subjected  to  some  oppression  and  extortion  on 
the  subject  of  my  play,  for  which  oppression  and  extor- 
tion I  beg  to  say  I  am  not  responsible,  and  I  hope  to  be 
acquitted  of  any  share  in  the  wants  and  discontents  of 
women,  which,  if  excusable  in  them,  would  not  be  so  in 
me.  It  is  true  enough  I  rather  collected  from  your  man- 
ner that  you  did  not  much  fancy  the  play,  and  that  I  was 
a  little  disappointed  at  that — more  so,  certainly,  than  I 
should  have  been  at  the  unfavorable  judgments  of  other 
men.  But  I  think  I  may  say  for  myself  that  I  bore  my 
disappointment  very  cheerfully.  Indeed  I  have  always 
thought  that  the  best  feature  of  this  sort  of  employment 
is  that  the  pleasure  one  takes  in  it  is  not  attended  by  any 
serious  drawback  from  ill-success.  I  am  glad  of  all  the 
success  I  can  get;  and  though  sorry,  not  at  all  propor- 
tionately sorry,  if  I  get  none." 

He  then  wrote  to  me  in  commendation  of  the  work, 
not  the  less  acceptable  for  being  expressed  in  his  own 
quiet  and  unexaggerating  tone  and  language:  "This  be- 
cause you  say  you  were  a  little  disappointed.  I  know 
very  well  that  you  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  rest.  If 
other  parties  require  further  satisfaction,  I  am  ready  to 
answer  questions,  though  not  to  perform  ecstatics." 

To  this  I  made  answer,  2d  March,  18C2:  "With  what 
you  say  of  the  play  of  course  I  am  abundantly  pleased 


170  A.\ddbiograpl(y  of  Ilcnnj  Taylor. 

and  satisfied.  Moreover,  -what  is  more  important,  the 
female  mind  is  at  rest.  At  the  same  time,  it  may  be 
doubted  -whether  you  have  said  enough  ;  for  I  received 
the  day  before  yesterday  a  letter  from  a  lady,  intimating 
that  my  -writings  are  a  light  to  her  feet  and  a  lantern  to 
lier  paths,  and  that  they  rank  next  to  the  Inspired 
Volume.  I  hope  and  believe  that  she  is  a  young  lady, 
only  -wise  beyond  her  years.  I  once  met  in  a  railway  car- 
riage, on  the  -way  to  Bath,  a  man  who  thought  that  the 
three  great  books  of  the  world  were  the  Bible, '  Pickwick,' 
and  'Clark.on  Climate.'" 

What  I  had  so  far  written  of  James  Spedding  -was 
-written  when  he  was  still  living,  and  in  the  expectation, 
as  he  -was  eight  years  my  junior  (born  in  June,  1808),  that 
he  would  survive  me.  In  the  year  1881,  when  crossing  a 
street,  he  -«'as  run  over  by  a  cab  and  taken  to  St.  George's 
Hospital  in  a  state  of  unconsciousness.  There  was  an 
interval  before  his  death  in  which  he  was  able  to  sj^eak  a 
fcAv  words,  and  what  he  said  was  that  the  accident  was 
owing  to  his  deafness,  and  no  one  but  himself  was  to 
blame.     Nothing  could  be  more  characteristic. 

As  he  will  not  read  Avhat  I  write  I  may  allow  myself  to 
say  something  more.  He  was  always  master  of  himself 
and  of  his  emotions;  but  underlying  a  somewhat  melan- 
choly composure  and  aspect  there  were  depths  of  tender- 
ness known  only  to  those  who  knew  his  whole  nature  and 
his  inward  life,  and  it  is  well  for  those  by  whom  he  is 
mourned  if  tliey  can  find  Avhat  he  has  described  in  a  letter 
to  be  his  great  consolation  in  all  his  experiences  of  the 
death  of  those  he  loved  (experiences  which  had  begun 
early  and  had  not  been  few),  "that  the  past  is  sacred  and 
sanctified;  nothing  can  hapjicn  hereafter  to  alter  or  dis- 
turb or  obliterate  it;  nor  need  the  recollection  have  any 
bitterness  if  a  man  does  not,  out  of  a  false  and  morbid 


James  Sjyedding.  177 

sentiment,  make  it  so  for  himself."  .  .  .  And  he  adds,  "To 
me  there  are  no  comjianions  more  welcome,  cordial,  con- 
solatory, or  cheerful  than  my  dead  friends,"  That  the 
deaths  of  which  he  had  had  experience  had  begun  early, 
there  is  an  example  in  that  of  a  schoolfellow  when  he  was 
at  school,  and  from  some  verses  written  on  the  occasion  it 
will  be  seen  that  there  was  an  early  beginning  also  of  the 
manner  of  his  mourning: 

"i. 

In  a  still  vision  I  do  live, 

I  saw  thee  fade  from  the  pure  light, 

I  know  the  close  grave  cannot  give 
Til}'  body  to  my  sight, 

I  know  tiiou  canst  not  leave  the  gloom 

Of  that  dark  and  jealous  tomb. 

II. 
And  yet  thou  art  with  me  all  tiie  day. 

Thy  voice  is  ever  in  my  ear ; 
"VVhate'er  I  do,  or  think,  or  say, 

I  feel  that  thou  art  near ; 
Tiiou  leanest  on  me  even  now, 
With  thy  sweet  and  curled  brow. 

III. 
Unto  the  hour  is  fashioned 

My  task :  unknown  to  thee  the  spot. 
Tliis  book  I  read  tliou  hadst  not  read ; 

These  thoughts  thou  knewest  not; 
And  yet  I  feel  thee  here  with  me, 
Though  here  I  know  thou  canst  not  be. 

IT. 

I  dream  not.     To  mine  inner  eye 

In  a  waking  vision  still, 
Robed  in  grace  that  cannot  die, 

Thine  image  lives,  and  ever  will, 
With  aspect  of  unfading  cheer. 
And  placid  eye  forever  clear." 
'  II.— S* 


1T8  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

The  versos  were  seen  by  no  one  except  a  brother,  who 
died  in  his  first  youth,  till  about  twenty  years  after,  when 
he  sent  them  to  Alice  on  an  occasion  on  which  he  thought 
they  might  be  of  use  to  her:  and  so  they  were. 


Chapter  XVI. 

DEGREE  OF  D.C.L.  CONFERRED  AT  OXFORD— ACADEMICAL  FES- 
TIVITIES.—DIVERS  FORMS  OF  PLEASURE.— IDLENESS  IN  THE 
FOREIGN  OFFICE  AND  THE  RECREATIONS  OF  MR.  HAMMOND.— 
LORD  PALMERSTON  AND  PROFESSOR  WHEATSTONE. 

Anho.  Dom.  18G2.     Anno  -S:t.  G2. 

In  July,  1862,  at  the  annual  "Commemoration"  at  Ox- 
ford, I  was  to  be  honored  by  that  university  with  the 
degree  of  D.C.L. ,  and  I  went  ray  way  thither.  On  the 
5th  July  I  gave  an  account  of  the  ceremony  in  a  letter  to 
Lord  Monteagle:  "I  found  my  part  very  easy  to  sustain, 
being  nothing  but  walking  upright  and  standing  still; 
and  I  hope  the  undergraduates  found  no  difficulty  in 
theirs,  being  nothing  but  that  of  '  Bottom '  in  the  inter- 
lude." The  undergraduates  on  these  occasions  filled  the 
galleries,  and  enjoyed  at  this  time  an  exemption  for  an 
hour  or  two  in  the  year  (of  which  I  am  sorry  to  hear  they 
are  now  to  be  deprived)  from  the  rigors  of  academical 
decorum.  They  were  licensed,  or  at  least  not  forbidden, 
to  indulge  in  every  sort  of  uproar,  cheering  with  all  their 
might  and  flinging  their  jokes  in  the  face  of  the  solemni- 
ties. I  was  told  that  wlien  the  Duke  of  Wellington  was 
one  of  the  persons  who  received  the  honor,  an  undergrad- 
uate in  the  gallery  shouted:  "Three  cheers  for  Dr.  Wel- 
■  lington;"  and  the  gallant  doctor  was  vociferously  cheered 
accordingly. 

Of  Oxford  I  had  known  no  more  than  what  was  to  be 
seen  in  a  visit  of  a  week,  paid  thirty  years  before  to  Ed- 


180  A\it6biograj>hy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

ward  Villiers  when  ho  was  a  fellow  of  Mcrton.  Of  Cam- 
bridge I  had  seen  still  less;  but  I  had  seen  it  on  the  same 
sort  of  occasion,  also  long  before,  in  its  holiday  attire — 
not  on  any  doctoring  errand  of  my  own,  but  merely  on  an 
invitation  to  dinner  from  the  Master  and  Fellows  of  Trin- 
ity. I  had  not  found  any  such  fault  with  the  dinner  as 
Dr.  Johnson  did  Avhen  he  stalked  off  with  Boswell  from  a 
dinner  at  one  of  the  colleges,  growling — "  This  merriment 
among  parsons  is  mighty  offensive."  The  fault  I  found 
was  of  an  opposite  kind;  I  could  have  wished  the  parsons 
a  little  more  merry  than  they  were.  The  post-prandial 
speeches  were  profoundly  grave,  as  well  as  immeasurably 
long;  and  the  only  pleasure  I  had  enjoyed  was  when,  on 
looking  up  towards  the  ceiling,  I  saw  the  light  fall  upon 
a  bright  face  of  one  of  the  Ladies  Elliot,  as  she  w\as  look- 
ing on  the  scene  below  from  some  opening  through  which 
ladies  were  permitted  to  gaze  at  the  dinners  they  might 
not  eat.  The  gravities  of  the  dinner,  however,  tedious 
though  they  were,  seemed  to  me  more  suitable  to  the 
place  than  the  gayeties  of  the  two  following  days — a  con- 
travention in  my  eyes  of  a  maxim  which  I  had  often 
maintained  in  regard  to  literature,  and  which  I  conceived 
to  be  not  less  applicable  to  enjoyments  in  life — that  what 
is  meant  to  be  light  should  be  short.  I  had  no  reason  to 
complain,  whether  at  Cambridge  formerly  or  at  Oxford 
now,  being  free  to  depart  whenever  I  had  had  enough. 
But  I  saw  it  out,  and  then  in  a  letter  betook  myself  to 
moralizing:  "The  mistake  in  these  cases  seems  to  me  to 
be  in  making  festivity  last  more  than  one  day.  Human 
nature  is  not  equal  to  more  than  one  day's  hard  pleasur- 
ing at  a  time."  And  then,  turning  from  Oxford  to' 
Bournemouth  with  an  invidious  comparison,  "  I  wish  you 
could  see  this  place;  it  is  a  place  where  Nature  is  the 
holiday-maker  and  Man  is  at  rest." 


Different  Ideas  of  Pleasure.  181 

Such  were  my  views  of  pleasure.  But  of  pleasure  the 
views  taken  in  this  world  are  very  various,  and  every  man 
must  be  allowed  to  have  his  own.  In  some  years  long  past 
— I  forget  the  date — when  Charles  Spring  Rice,  returning 
from  abroad,  repaired  to  the  foreign  office  (to  which  he 
belonged),  and  asked  for  Mr.  Hammond,  the  under  secre- 
tary, the  answer  of  the  office-keeper  was  that  he  was  not 
there.  Charles,  somewhat  surprised,  for  Mr.  Hammond 
was  rarely  known  to  be  anywhere  else,  inquired  what 
had  become  of  him,  "  WqW,  sir,"  said  the  office-keeper, 
"he  has  gone  to  a  funeral;  and  it  is  the  only  day's  pleas- 
uring he  has  had  for  two  years." 

The  office-keeper  was  a  little  astray  in  speaking  thus 
of  an  actual  funeral  and  an  under  secretary,  but  if  the 
question  had  been  of  a  poet  and  a  funeral  of  the  fancy,  or 
even  of  Youth  indulging  its  imagination,  there  would  be 
no  mistake  in  speaking  of  pleasure  in  communion  with 
gloom: 

"  In  youth  we  love  the  darksome  lawn 

Brushed  by  the  owlet's  wing ; 
Then  twilight  is  preferred  to  dawn 

And  autumn  to  the  spring : 
Sad  fancies  do  we  then  affect 
In  luxury  of  disrespect 
To  our  own  prodigal  excess 
Of  too  familiar  happiness. " 

I  was  young  myself,  though  certainly  not  too  familiar 
with  happiness,  when  I  frowned  upon  the  festivities  at 
Cambridge.  At  Oxford  I  was  old,  and  I  was  also  observ- 
ant; and  I  saw  a  good  deal  that  might  be  observed  with 
interest  in  the  peculiar  social  scenery  which  human  life 
presents  in  this  sort  of  assemblage;  the  meeting  and  in- 
termingling of  the  men  of  learning  and  the  men  in  public 
life,  of  the  brilliant  and  the  grave,  of  Euphranca  and  Or- 


182  Autobiograjyhy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

gilus,*  of  tlic  divine  and  the  man  of  pleasure,  of  the  man 
of  the  world  and  the  man  of  science. 

The  encounter  Avhich  amused  me  most  occurred  at  an 
evening  party  at  the  vice-chancellor's.  Lord  Palmerston 
was  one  of  the  eminent  men  M'ho  had  received  his  degree 
in  the  morning;  and,  standing  at  a  little  distance,  I 
watched  him  as  he  listened  to  a  somewhat  prolonged  ex- 
position by  Professor  Wheatstone  of  certain  new  devices 
he  had  been  busied  with  for  the  application  of  telegraphy. 
The  man  of  science  was  slow,  the  man  of  the  world  seemed 
attentive;  the  man  of  science  was  copious,  the  man  of  the 
world  let  nothing  escape  him;  the  man  of  science  un- 
folded the  anticipated  results — another  and  another,  the 
man  of  the  world  listened  with  all  his  ears:  and  I  was 
saying  to  myself,  "  His  patience  is  exemplary,  but  will  it 
last  forever?"  when  I  heard  the  issue:  "God  bless  my 
soul,  you  doi)'t  say  so!  I  must  get  you  to  tell  that  to  the 
lord  chancellor."  And  the  man  of  the  world  took  the 
man  of  science  to  another  part  of  the  room,  hooked  him 
on  to  Lord  Westbury,  and  bounded  away  like  a  horse  let 
loose  in  a  pasture. 

*  ' '  Eupii.  Are  you  a  scholar,  friend  ? 

Org.  I  am,  gny  creature." — Ford's  '^'^  Broken  Hearty 


ClIAPTEK    XVII. 

QUESTIONS  OF  HOME  POLICY  IN  LETTER  TO  LOUD  GREY.-LET- 
TER  TO  MR.  HERM.VN  MERIVALE.- QUESTIONS  OF  COLONIAL 
POLICY  IN  LETTERS  TO  THE  DUKE  OF  NEWCASTLE  AND 
OTHERS. 

Anno  Dom.  1SG1-Gr>.     Axxo  JEt.  Gi-G5. 

Of  the  official  operations  which  were  now  to  be  no 
longer  interwoven  with  the  poetical  there  remained  about 
ten  years,  for  I  did  not  quit  the  colonial  office  till  1872. 
Those  were  years  in  which,  fortunately  for  the  colonies, 
colonial  policy  was  not  much  entangled  with  home  policy, 
and  in  a  practical  way  I  had  as  little  concern  as  usual 
wuth  English  political  life.  But  in  this  country  a  man 
can  scarcely  avoid  having  opinions  on  the  fundamental 
questions  with  which  the  political  mind  of  the  country  is 
from  time  to  time  possessed;  and,  little  as  he  may  be  oc- 
cupied with  them,  he  will  have  occasion  now  and  then  to 
express  them. 

My  opinions  on  parliamentary  reform  were  expressed  in 
a  letter  of  16th  May,  1864,  to  Lord  Grey,  who  had  sent 
me  some  chapters  relating  to  the  subject  in  a  work  he  was 
about  to  publish.  It  was  a  long  letter,  examining  in  de- 
tail sundry  devices  by  which  Lord  Grey  was  of  opinion 
that  a  demand  for  further  reforms,  whenever  it  should 
arise,  might  be  best  met.  I  confine  what  I  shall  extract 
to  the  general  principles  by  which  I  was  myself  disposed 
to  be  guided  in  considering  questions  of  organic  change. 

"  As  to  my  own  views,  I  have  a  good  deal  to  say  if  I 


184  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

knew  how  to  say  it.  In  regard  to  the  present  state  of 
things,  I  agree  with  you  generally;  but  I  take  exception 
to  your  treatment  of  the  franchise  as  a  question  of  justice, 
fairness,  and  impartiality  in  respect  of  those  who  do  and 
those  who  do  not  possess  it,  I  think  it  should  be  re- 
garded, not  as  a  valuable  possession,  but  rather  as  an  un- 
paid office  or  function  in  the  state,  which  the  law  assigns 
to  be  held  by  tliose  who  are  presumably  qualified  to  dis- 
charge it,  and  because  they  are  qualified,  and  not  on  the 
ground  of  any  other  right  or  title.  I  am  content  with 
the  existing  and  somewhat  haphazard  distribution,  simply 
on  the  ground  that  it  answers  its  purpose  of  producing  a 
House  of  Commons  which  is  in  the  main  not  partial  nor 
corrupt,  nor  prone  to  be  carried  away  by  passion;  but,  on 
the  contrary,  if  not  very  brilliant  or  enlightened,  well- 
meaning,  diligent,  and  fairly  discreet.  I  am  content  with 
the  borough  constituencies,  because  I  do  not  think  that 
there  is  any  deep  or  essential  immorality  in  the  means  by 
which  they  are  induced  to  give  their  votes.  Bribery  is  a 
statutable  offence,  but  not  an  offence  against  natural  mo- 
rality. It  is,  of  course,  more  or  less  immoral  to  break  the 
law;  but  I  think  the  law  against  bribery  cannot  carry 
popular  moral  feeling  along  with  it.  Men  whom  a  moral 
humility  would  teach  that  they  have  no  possible  right  to 
form  opinions  upon  questions  of  national  policy  and  legis- 
lation, are  asked  to  vote  for  this  or  that  candidate,  and,  in 
the  absence  of  any  public  motive  for  voting  one  way  or 
the  other,  they  vote  for  the  candidate  from  whom  they  or 
their  families  have  experienced  kindness  or  liberality,  or 
perhaps  they  see  no  great  harm  in  taking  five  pounds  for 
performing  the  perfectly  innocuous  act  of  voting  for  one 
candidate,  who,  for  aught  they  can  tell,  is  just  as  good  as 
another.  The  statutable  morality  against  which  they  of- 
fend finds  little  or  no  support  in  the  feelings  of  mankind. 


Questions  of  Home  Policy.  185 

To  this  view  of  electioneering  bribery  I  Avas  first  led,  I 
think,  by  some  remarks  of  yours,  in  your  former  publica- 
tion, though  your  remarks  did  not  go  the  length  that 
they  have  led  me  to  go.  The  only  good  reason  I  should 
recognize  for  making  changes  is  that  which  you  advance 
yourself  as  one  main  motive  for  projecting  them — that 
before  long  they  may  not  be  to  be  helped. 

"The  only  great  danger  which  I  apprehend  for  the 
country  is  from  the  natural  principle  of  self-increase  in 
popular  power  and  its  tendency  to  become  irresistibly 
preponderant.  It  is  difficult  in  these  times  to  imagine 
any  danger  to  arise  to  popular  liberty,  or  to  that  popular 
power  which  is  often  miscalled  popular  liberty,  from  any- 
thing except  its  own  excess.  Nothing  would  have  recon- 
ciled me — nothing,  I  believe,  would  have  reconciled  the 
majority  of  those  who  voted  for  it — to  the  Reform  Bill 
of  1832,  except  the  conjecture  that  of  dangerous  courses 
it  was  perhaps  the  least  dangerous. 

"  I  was  slow  to  admit  that  it  could  be  so,  or  I  admitted 
it  with  great  doubt  and  distrust,  in  1832;  but  if  I  could 
have  known  that  the  Reform  Bill  would  give  birth  to 
thirty-two  years  of  domestic  tranquillity,  I  should  have 
been  quite  content  with  it,  and  prepared  to  hazard  all 
that  might  ensue  thereafter.  The  Reform  Bill  of  1832, 
and  any  other  henceforth  to  be  enacted,  may  be  the  fore- 
runners of  a  great  storm  and  a  great  wreck,  and  yet  they 
may  not  the  less  be  regarded  by  those  who  may  look 
back  upon  them  one  hundred  years  hence  as  having  post- 
poned the  inevitable.  Our  business  now  is  the  same,  in 
one  point  at  least,  as  that  of  the  reformers  of  1832 — to 
provide  what  stability  and  security  we  can  for  such 
limited  tract  of  time  as  it  seems  likely  that  our  operations 
can  cover.  Our  views  must  be  bounded  by  our  horizon, 
and  the  paulo-post-future  is  what  it  belongs  to  us  to  take 


186  Autohiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

care  of.  Thus  I  am  prepared  to  apply  the  same  princi- 
j)les  of  judgment  to  your  project  of  reform  as  I  applied 
or  ought  to  have  applied  to  that  of  1832.  Whenever 
some  such  project  shall  appear  to  be  the  least  of  two  or 
more  dangers,  I  shall  be  ready  for  its  practical  considera- 
tion; and,  foreseeing  with  you  the  possibility  that  it  may 
become  so  in  no  long  course  of  years,  I  am  ready  now  for 
its  theoretic  consideration. 

"  What  puts  on  the  brake  more  than  anything  else  is,  no 
doubt,  the  frightful  phenomenon  of  the  United  States  ex- 
ploding. Cameron  pointed  out  to  me  a  passage  in  a  let- 
ter from  Southey  to  the  Rev.  J.  Miller,  dated  IGth  No- 
vember, 1833  (' Southey's  Life  and  Correspondence,'  voL 
vi.,  p.  223),  which  might  make  an  interesting  foot-note  to 
the  page  in  which  you  refer  to  the  United  States.  lie  is 
speaking  of  the  changes  which  take  place  in  revolutionary 
times,  and  he  says,  '  Some  of  these  changes  are  likely  to 
act  in  our  favor.  The  time  cannot  be  far  distant  "when 
the  United  States  of  America,  instead  of  being  held  up 
to  us  as  an  example,  will  be  looked  to  as  a  warning.' 
The  warning  is  now  before  us,  and  its  full  import  is  recog- 
nized. For  what  length  of  years  it  may  suffice,  or  by 
what  other  warnings  from  Hungary,  or  Poland,  or  South 
Italy,  or  Germany,  or  France,  or  other  countries,  it  may  bo 
followed,  no  man  can  tell,  or  how  soon  all  warnings  may 
cease  to  be  heeded.  In  the  meantime,  at  leisure  and  in  a 
season  of  no  internal  disturbance,  I  think  Avith  you  and 
with  John  Mill,  it  is  well  that  philosophers  and  statesmen 
should  meditate  principles  and  projects. 

"I  agree  as  to  the  danger  cf  reform  by  instalment. 
But  at  the  same  time  I  think  it  is  not  possible  that  any 
man  should  construct  before  the  time,  with  any  chance  of 
its  ultimate  adoption,  a  project  of  which  the  parts  are  es- 
sentially correlative  and  one  to  balance  another  so  as  to 


Parliamentary  Reform.  187 

form  a  compacted  and  organic  whole.  You  seem  to  rec- 
ognize this  impossibility,  and  you  disavow  the  purpose 
of  propounding  a  scheme  in  detail.  But  your  views  seem 
to  me  to  constitute  a  scheme  in  so  far  forth  as,  among  the 
several  changes  you  propose,  the  admissibility  of  one  de- 
pends, in  your  apprehension,  upon  the  simultaneous  adop- 
tion of  another.  I  do  not  object  to  this;  for  I  think  it 
useful  and  indeed  important  that  such  a  scheme  should 
be  devised;  it  presents  a  thesis  for  discussion,  and  con- 
tributes to  a  more  just  appreciation  of  its  own  elements 
taken  sej)arately;  and  in  the  vast  jumble  of  public  opin- 
ion it  forms  a  solid  nucleus  to  which  just  thoughts  may 
gather  and  attach  themselves.  But  if  any  composite 
scheme  of  reform  should  ever  again  have  a  chance  of  be- 
ing carried  into  effect,  I  think,  and  I  dare  say  you  also 
think,  that  it  will  be  one,  not  preconcerted,  but  shaped 
by  the  immediate  pressures  of  the  time  which  requires  it. 
"  My  own  impz'cssion  is  that,  whenever  the  time  shall 
come,  reform  will  be  effected  in  the  more  dangerous  way, 
by  a  simple  and  not  by  a  composite  measure;  and  that  it 
will  be  effected  by  a  measure  which  shall  consist  of  little 
else  than  an  addition,  be  it  more  or  less  at  a  time,  to  the 
popular  element:  for  it  will  only  come  by  popular  press- 
ure ;  and  the  motive  of  that  pressure  will  be  popular  love 
of  power  simply,  and  not,  as  in  1832,  that  love  of  power 
combined  with  a  sense,  pervading  many  classes,  of  practi- 
cal evils  resulting  from  an  unjust  and  corrupt  House  of 
Commons.  And  if  popular  love  of  j^ower  be  the  sole  and 
simple  motive  at  work  (sanctioned  as  it  is,  almost  univer- 
sally, though,  I  think,  most  fallaciously,  by  the  notion 
that  love  of  power  for  its  own  sake  is  a  lawful  appetite), 
I  should  infer  that  the  simple  and  direct  pressure  for  that 
object  could  not  be  successfully  met  by  any  measure 
which  should  throw  in  counterweights  tending  to  neutral- 


188  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

ize  or  defeat  it,  or  even  to  qualify  it  in  a  balancing  sense. 
When  the  })ressurc  shall  be  strong  enough  to  produce  a 
measure  at  all,  it  -will  probably  be  strong  enough  to  throw 
out  all  counterweights.  The  j)rinciple  in  question  will 
not  be  that  of  constituting  a  better  House  of  Commons, 
because  there  will  be  no  strong  ])arty  in  the  country  that 
finds  any  particular  fault  with  the  working  of  the  House 
as  it  exists.  The  only  principle  maintained  by  any  strong 
party  will  be  that  of  giving  more  power  to  the  people, 
not  because  it  will  do  them  any  good,  but  because  they 
must  and  will  have  it,  or  because  they  are  supposed  to 
have  a  right  to  it;  and  anything  which  comes  in  material 
abatement  of  that  principle  will  be  denounced  by  the  peo- 
ple and  the  flatterers  of  the  people  as  a  fraud  upon  the 
principle  and  a  derogation  from  the  people's  rights.  It 
will  be  said  that  you  pretend  to  admit  the  principle  and 
the  right,  and  then  you  evade  giving  real  effect  to  them. 

"  But,  supposing  that  there  are  parties  in  the  country 
who  would  think,  as  I  do,  that  an  accession  of  popular 
power  is  merely  an  unhappy  necessity,  and  supposing  that 
these  parties  may  have  power  enough  in  the  country  to 
effect  a  compromise  as  such,  there  will  still  be  the  diffi- 
culty, in  a  state  of  society  like  ours,  in  which  every  man 
will  have  his  own  opinion  and  try  to  have  his  own  way, 
of  bringing  these  anti-popular  parties  to  a  concurrence  as 
to  the  particular  counterweights  to  be  selected." 

Then  came  the  examination  of  Lord  Grey's  devices,  ten 
in  number,  which,  as  they  could  only  be  reproduced  in  a 
one-sided  way,  it  is  better  to  omit,  and  I  pass  to  the  con- 
clusion. 

"  I  have  now  adverted,  I  think,  to  each  of  your  princi- 
pal topics  of  suggested  reform;  and,  if  to  any  purpose  at 
all,  in  a  manner,  I  am  afraid,  to  be  more  of  a  hinderance 
than  a  help.     But  herein  is  the  great  difficulty — that  in  a 


Parliamentary  Reform.  189 

subject  which  admits  of  so  many  views  and  doubts,  and 
of  the  more  the  more  it  is  considered,  it  is  hard  for  any 
two  men  to  agree,  and  more  hard  to  agree  upon  what  will 
meet  the  concurrence  of  hundreds  or  millions  of  other 
men.  My  inference  is,  that  agreement  being  so  hopeless 
as  the  result  of  close  consideration,  what  will  be  practi- 
cally at  issue  are  those  elements  of  the  question  which 
can  be  dealt  with  on  loose  consideration;  or  if  on  close 
consideration,  on  close  consideration  of  that  which  is  least 
complex;  a  simple  reduction  of  the  franchise,  identifying 
borough  and  county  franchises,  a  redistribution  of  the 
■constituencies,  chiefly  by  contraction  or  dilatation  of  those 
which  exist  on  a  maximum  and  minimum  princijile,  and 
cumulative  voting. 

"These  measures  would  be  within  the  constitution. 
They  would  introduce  no  new  principle  into  it.  But, 
with  the  exception  of  the  cumulative  vote,  they  would  be 
in  the  popular  direction. 

"  You  have  touched  upon  the  educational  test,  but  in 
that  I  think  there  is  no  safety  to  be  found.  A  high  edu- 
cational test,  such  as  that  of  universities  and  learned  pro- 
fessions, would  give  good  constituencies;  but  a  low  one 
would  give,  in  my  opinion,  political  activity  and  excite- 
ment without  political  prudence.  With  a  view  to  take 
securities  for  political  prudence,  if  something  else  than 
property  were  to  be  set  up  as  a  safeguard,  I  should  prefer 
age  to  education. 

"If  we  should  unfortunately  be  driven  upon  lowering 
the  franchise  by  instalment,  or  in  a  moderate  measure 
proposing  itself  as  final,  without  counterweights  or  safe- 
guards, may  there  not  be  found  even  in  this,  if  well  regu- 
lated, some  principle  of  conservation?  for  the  self-impor- 
tance of  constituencies  depends  upon  their  limitation;  and 
if  they  be  numerous  enough,  and  not  too  numerous,  may 


190  _A  utohiograjyhy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

they  not  be  strong  enough  in  the  strengtli  of  numbers  to 
hold  out  against  being  swamped  by  multitudes  ?" 

On  the  question  of  bribery,  as  treated  by  me,  I  find  a 
few  wise  words  in  a  letter  from  Mr.  James  Marshall,  in 
November,  1867:  "  I  should  not  blame  your  poor  voter,  who 
took  a  £5  note,  severely.  No;  I  would  simply  take  away 
his  vote.  lie  might  sell  his  birthright  once  over,  but  not 
go  on  playing  Esau  all  his  life  if  I  could  help  it.  I  would 
punish  rich  men  more  severely,  and  the  briber  more  than 
the  bribee." 

And  in  that  year  a  few  words  passed  bctAveen  me  and 
Lord  Grey  on  the  subject  of  his  speech  on  reform:  "I 
read  it  in  the  Times  with  more  satisfaction  than  any 
speech  of  the  session  on  tliat  subject,  and  ray  feeling  is 
the  same  on  reading  it  again  in  this  copy.  The  embar- 
rassment which  everybody  feels  as  to  what  is  to  be  done 
arises,  I  suppose,  from  the  fact  that  what  is  to  be  done  is 
to  please  the  j^eople  and  not  fo  serve  them.  There  is  a 
necessity  to  please  them,  or  to  try  to  please  them,  but  the 
object  is  in  itself  so  ill-defined,  and  the  amount  of  risk  to 
be  run  for  the  object  so  difiicult  to  estimate,  that  all  the 
thoughtful  portion  of  the  world  is  in  a  state  of  perplexity. 
Your  glance  at  the  former  popularity  of  protection  in  this 
country  and  its  present  popularity  in  countries  democrat- 
ically governed,  will  in  time,  I  believe,  receive  some  illus- 
tration from  the  trades  unions.  I  understand  that  the  feel- 
ings of  these  bodies  is  decidedly  protectionist;  and  though 
many  of  them  are  not  disposed  to  take  a  part  in  general 
politics  at  present,  it  is  obvious  that  no  such  bodies  can 
exist  without  being  convertible  to  political  purposes  under 
given  circumstances.  And  their  means  and  powers  are 
formidable.  Edmund  Head,  who  is  on  tlie  commission  for 
inquiring  into  them,  tells  me  that  one  of  them,  'The  As- 
sociated Engineers,'  has  a  revenue  of  £80,000  a  year." 


Parliamentary  Eeform.  191 

He  replied  as  follows:  "  I  am  very  glad  you  approve  of 
my  speech  on  reform.  The  difficulty  of  the  question  no 
doubt  arises  very  much  from  the  cause  you  mention,  to- 
gether with  the  fact  that  in  the  House  of  Commons  it  is 
always  considered  far  more  with  reference  to  personal  and 
party  interests  than  to  the  interests  of  the  public.  For 
instance,  I  understand  that  the  real  obstacle  to  carrying 
the  cumulative  vote  is,  not  that  opinion  is  unfavorable  to 
its  fairness,  but  that  whenever  two  men  of  the  same  poli- 
tics sit  for  one  place,  where  there  has  been  or  might  be  a 
contest,  they  both  feel  that  one  or  other  of  them  would 
be  pretty  sure  to  be  turned  out  if  this  mode  of  voting 
were  adopted.  There  are  nearly  one  hundred  and  sixty 
members  of  the  House  of  Commons  in  this  situation,  who 
are  hostile  to  the  scheme  because  it  would  endanger  their 
seats.  I  am  persuaded  that  if  the  bill  should  pass  in  the 
shape  which  now  seems  probable,  the  power  of  the  trades 
unions  will  soon  make  itself  most  seriously  felt  in  Parlia- 
ment, and  I  believe  with  you  their  spirit  is  decidedly  pro- 
tectionist. This  might  probably  be  first  shown  by  the 
revival  of  the  old  system  of  close  corporations  of  all  the 
skilled  artisans.  The  command  of  an  income  of  £86,000 
a  year  by  the  council  of  a  trades  union  implies  the  posses- 
sion of  very  dangerous  power." 

If,  in  1864, 1  adverted  to  "  the  frightful  phenomenon  of 
the  United  States  exploding,"  as  a  then  present  warning 
to  England,  I  did  not  look  back  upon  it,  when  past,  as 
no  longer  a  warning.  In  February,  1870,  Herman  Meri- 
vale  having  sent  me  a  very  instructive  and  thoughtful  ar- 
ticle in  a  magazine,  written  on  his  return  from  a  visit  of 
observation  to  the  United  States,  I  wrote  to  him  in  reply: 
"Your  accounts  of  the  United  States  have  given  me  great 
♦pleasure.  They  are  very  vivid  and  interesting,  and  they 
present  some  insights  and  views  which  are  new  to  me.     I 


193  Autobiograiyliy  of  Ilcnrxj  Taylor. 

do  not  like  the  American  people  or  any  other  people.  But 
it  is  the  loud  and  obtrusive  portion  of  the  people,  heard  of 
in  public  and  in  the  press,  which  is  the  more  disagreeable 
portion;  and  I  can  quite  believe  that,  on  getting  with- 
in this  array  of  drums  and  trumpets  and  stars  and  stripes, 
one  would  find  a  good  deal  to  like;  and  perhaps,  as  one 
got  farther  and  farther  into  it,  patriotic  boasting  and  bul- 
lying would  die  away  in  the  distance.  The  English  peo- 
ple are  a  disagreeable  people  enough,  but  I  think  they 
indulge  rather  less  in  these  patriotic  pretensions. 

"I  am  not  quite  sure  that  I  agree  with  you  in  your 
preference  of  the  organization  constructed  to  the  organi- 
zation constructively  evolved — nor  that  I  should  expect 
as  much  stability  for  the  former  as  for  the  latter.  The 
American  polity  was  very  wisely  constructed,  no  doubt,  or 
it  could  not  have  lasted  so  long  as  it  did  without  disrup- 
tion; but  when  Americans  speak  of  the  issue  of  the  war 
between  North  and  South  as  evincing  strength  of  struct- 
ure in  the  Union,  I  feel  disposed  to  ask  whether  the  war 
itself  was  not  some  evidence  of  its  weakness,  whether  the 
Union  was  worth  preserving  at  the  cost  of  the  war,  and 
whether  in  reality  the  Union  is  the  Union  that  was  before 
the  war,  or  is  not  essentially  and  substantially  another 
Union,  and  whether  the  exultation  of  the  North  in  mak- 
ing the  Union  whole  again  is  not  something  analogous  to 
the  exultation  of  the  French  physician  over  the  body  of 
his  patient — '  il  est  mort  gueri '? 

"  The  real  triumph  of  the  war  was  in  the  extinction  of 
slavery,  which  was  not  the  object  of  it.  If  there  was  no 
hope  that  slavery  could  be  extinguished  as  we  extinguished 
it  in  our  colonies,  or  otherwise  than  by  force,  it  may  be 
well  to  have  had  it  extinguished  even  at  the  cost  of  that 
monstrous  and  horrible  war,  with  all  the  demoralization 
and  evil  passions  it  has  left  behind  it.     That  was  not  the 


Dis-united  States.  193 

justification  of  the  North,  because  it  was  not  their  object; 
it  was  the  object  of  only  a  small  minority;  and,  this  being 
so,  there  is  no  assurance  that,  with  an  equal  absence  of  any 
such  object  or  justification,  another  war  may  not  be  at  any 
time  undertaken  by  any  majority  of  the  nation,  exercising 
tyrannical  power  over  a  minority  for  national  aggrandize- 
ment in  the  maintenance  of  a  coerced  federation.  If  the 
construction  of  the  Union  be  such  as  to  maintain  itself  by 
these  means  and  on  these  terms,  I  cannot  call  it  a  success- 
ful construction  in  respect  of  the  interests  of  freedom  and 
of  humanity. 

"  But  I  doubt  the  coherency  of  the  structure,  especially 
having  regard  to  the  national  lust  of  aggrandizement. 
The  South  is  now  a  rotten  member.  Let  Mexico  and 
Canada  be  annexed,  and  Cuba  and  Hayti,  with  such  other 
of  the  neighboring  islands  as  would  naturally  go  along 
with  them,  and  what  would  be  the  result  ?  Would  it  not 
happen  to  the  Union  (as  taught  in  the  *  Discorsi')  '  come 
a  quello  albero  che  havesse  pivl  grosso  il  ramo  che  '1  piede, 
che  sostenendolo  con  f attica,  ogni  piccolo  vento  lo  fiacca '  ? 
or,  as  Bacon  expresses  the  same  idea,  '  when  they  did 
spread  and  their  boughs  were  become  too  great  for  their 
stem,  they  became  a  windfall  on  the  sudden.' 

"  Such  are  my  notions ;  but,  on  political  questions,  I 
feel  my  opinions  to  be  nothing  more  than  conjectures." 

Mr.  Merivale  made  answer  (11th  February,  18V0): 
"Many  thanks  for  your  commentary.  Notwithstanding 
my  American  partialities — which  I  fully  admit — I  cannot 
gainsay  much  of  what  you  have  said  as  to  the  risky  con- 
dition of  their  political  speculation.  Only  on  one  point  I 
must  differ,  if  I  understand  you  rightly,  as  it  is  matter  of 
history,  and  not  conjecture.  No  doubt  the  extinction  of 
slavery  was  not  the  '  object '  of  the  Civil  War,  in  the 
sense  of  being  the  deliberate  purpose  of  those  who  op- 

II.— 9 


194  Autdbiograjphy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

posed  secession,  any  more  than  cutting  off  Charles  the 
First's  head  was  the  object  of  the  leaders  of  the  Long 
Parliament.  But  the  slavery  question  was  at  the  bottom 
of  the  whole  quarrel  notwithstanding.  Increase  of  the 
area  of  slavery  and  maintenance  of  the  fugitive  slave- 
laws  were  the  two  incidents  of  that  question  on  which 
the  first  issues  were  taken.  A  number  of  well-meaning 
people,  members  of  Congress  from  both  sides,  met,  just 
before  the  Fort  Sumter  business,  to  try  and  arrange  terms 
of  reconciliation.  They  got  no  further  than  to  formulate 
points  of  difference.  Those  points — fourteen  or  fifteen  in 
number — were  all,  unless  my  memory  much  deceives  me, 
connected  with  slavery.  There  was  no  other  ground  of 
difference." 

Early  in  this  year  Sir  Charles  Elliot  had  sent  me  a  pa- 
per upon  colonial  defences  for  communication  to  the  Duke 
of  Newcastle,  then  secretary  of  state,  if  I  should  think  it 
proper  to  be  so  communicated.  In  sending  it  to  the  duke 
(2Gth  February,  1864),  I  expressed  my  own  views  on  some 
of  the  questions  raised :  "As  to  our  American  possessions, 
I  have  long  held  and  often  expressed  the  opinion  that  they 
are  a  sort  of  (kunnosa  hoereditas  /  and  when  your  grace  and 
the  Prince  of  Wales  were  employing  yourselves  so  suc- 
cessfully in  conciliating  the  colonists,  I  thought  that  you 
were  drawing  closer  ties  which  might  better  be  slackened 
if  there  were  any  chance  of  their  slipping  away  altogether. 
I  think  that  a  policy  which  has  regard  to  a  not  very  far- 
off  future  should  prepare  facilities  and  propensities  for 
separation;  and  I  therefore  agree  entirely  in  Sir  Charles 
Elliot's  preference  of  a  local  and  indigenous  military  force. 
So  long  as  there  shall  be  a  single  imperial  battalion  in  the 
provinces  the  whole  imperial  army  and  exchequer,  and  the 
honor  of  the  crown,  will  be  committed  to  its  suj»port  un- 
der difficulties;  and  circumstances  may  arise  in  which  a 


Colonial  Policy.  IftB 

large  proportion  of  the  imperial  army  and  treasure  will 
not  be  more  than  enough.  This  is  what  I  fear.  As  to  the 
current  expenses  of  garrisons  during  peace,  it  is  compara- 
tively unimportant,  as  a  mere  matter  of  finance,  what  por- 
tion of  them  shall  be  borne  by  the  provinces  and  this  coun- 
try respectively;  but,  viewed  as  a  part  of  a  system  and  an 
implied  pledge,  the  future  contingencies  involved  seem  to 
me  most  formidable.  In  my  estimation,  the  worst  conse- 
quence of  the  late  dispute  with  the  United  States  has  been 
that  of  involving  this  country  and  its  North  American 
provinces  in  closer  relations  and  a  common  cause. 

"I  should  desire  to  throw  the  current  military  expen- 
diture upon  the  colonists,  as  tending,  by  connecting  self- 
protection  with  self-government,  to  detach  the  colonies, 
and  promote  their  independence  and  segregation  at  an 
eai'lier  day,  and  thereby  to  withdraw  this  country  in  time 
from  great  contingent  dangers.  If  there  be  any  motives 
which  should  plead  for  a  prolonged  connection,  it  appears 
to  me  that  they  are  of  a  cosmopolitan  and  philanthropic 
nature,  and  not  such  as  grow  out  of  the  interests  of  this 
country,  though  there  are  no  doubt  some  minor  English 
interests  which  are  the  better  for  the  connection.  There 
are  national  obligations,  also,  to  be  regarded,  and  some 
self-sacrifice  is  required  of  this  country  for  a  time.  All 
that  I  would  advocate  is  a  preparatory  policy,  loosening 
obligations,  and  treating  the  repudiation  by  the  colonists 
of  legislative  and  executive  dependence  as  naturally  car- 
rying with  it  some  modification  of  the  absolute  right  to 
be  protected.  As  to  ^>res^/^e,  I  think  it  belongs  to  real 
power,  and  not  to  a  merely  apparent  dominion  by  which 
real  power  is  impaired.  With  regard  to  the  Cape,  which 
has  been  hitherto  the  extreme  case  of  military  expendi- 
ture for  the  protection  of  a  colony,  I  think  the  question 
should  be  regarded  as  purely  philanthropic — a  question 


198  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

whether  this  country  thinks  it  lier  duty  to  save  and  civil- 
ize barbarous  tribes,  whatever  be  the  cost,  or  is  prepared 
to  let  loose  upon  them  the  barbarous  passions  of  civilized 
men.  If  the  formei",  warfare  must  be  conducted  at  the 
Cape  by  British  troops  under  British  control,  and  at  the 
cost  of  the  British  treasury.  If  the  latter,  it  is  essential 
to  this  country's  good  name  that  irresponsibility  should  be 
established  by  separation." 

In  the  following  year  the  government  applied  to  the 
House  of  Commons  for  contributions  towards  the  future 
defence  of  Canada,  and  I  wrote  (25th  March,  1865)  to  Mr. 
Fortescue,*  under  secretary  of  state,  Avhose  business  it 
had  been  to  support  this  application,  what  had  occurred 
to  me  on  reading  the  debate:  "There  is  one  point  which 
has  not  been  touched  by  your  opponents,  nor  do  I  know 
whether  it  has  been  considered  by  yourselves.  The  case 
being  professedly  one  for  joint  charges,  is  the  political  po- 
sition such  as  to  enable  the  tAvo  parties  to  contract  mutual 
obligations  of  adequate  validity  and  duration  ?  In  respect 
of  some  moderate  amount  of  military  expenditure  for  a 
year  or  two  to  come,  both  the  British  and  Canadian  legis- 
latures are  competent  to  charge  the  respective  revenues 
with  the  respective  quotas.  But  if  this  present  and  pres- 
ently-to-come expenditure  j)rocecds  upon  any  principle  at 
all,  the  principle  is  one  which  extends  to  contingencies 
and  considerations  far  beyond  what  any  one  House  of 
Commons  and  any  one  Canadian  Assembly  is  competent 
to  deal  witli.  It  may  be  said,  perhaps,  that  the  same  ob- 
jection would  apply  to  an  offensive  and  defensive  alliance 
between  two  independent  countries  governed  by  bodies 
periodically  changed  (of  which  bodies  no  one  for  the  time 
being  can  bind  its  successor).     But  to  this  I  should  reply 

*  Now  Lord  Cailingford. 


Colonial  Policy.  i^'' 

that  an  offensive  and  defensive  alliance  between  two  coun- 
tries, of  which  one  or  both  are  democracies,  is  in  all  prob- 
ability an  unsustainable  alliance,  and  ought  never  to  be 
contracted.  You  may  rely  upon  charges  and  appropria- 
tions actually  enacted  by  British  North  American  legis- 
latures, but  you  can  by  no  means  carry  your  reliance  far- 
ther. Beyond  this  point  all  that  you  have  to  rely  upon  is 
the  pressure  of  a  mutual  interest;  and,  for  ray  part,  I  look 
about  for  such  an  interest  in  vain.  The  North  American, 
like  the  Australian  colonies,  and  like  the  Cape,  have  very 
naturally  renounced  all  consideration  of  English  interests, 
and  renounced  and  resented  every  exercise  of  English 
power,  so  often  as  they  conflicted  in  the  slightest  degree 
with  colonial  interests  or  sentiments.  If  (notwithstand- 
ing the  Irish  element  in  their  populations)  they  have  any 
sentiment  of  attachment  to  England  (which  I  doubt),  it  is 
one  which  is  ready  to  be  converted  into  actual  animosity 
on  the  slightest  conflict  of  interests  or  interference  with 
independent  action.  So  long  as  the  connection  is  an  une- 
qual one — all  give  and  no  take — and  they  enjoy  real  inde- 
pendence, with  all  the  advantages  pertaining  to  depen- 
dence, they  are  content;  but  no  longer.*  Now  it  is  not 
in  the  nature  of  things  that,  where  there  is  not  really  and 
substantially  a  common  interest,  two  countries  connected 
by  little  else  than  origin,  and  widely  disconnected  by  sit- 
uation and  circumstances,  should  contract  with  each  other 


*  Note,  Feb.  188."). — In  tlie  very  week  in  which  this  cliapter  is  pass- 
in"  through  the  press,  tlie  Canadian  and  Australasian  colonies  have  taken 
steps  which  are  at  direct  variance  witli  the  views  I  have  expressed,  wheth- 
er as  to  facts  or  as  to  forecasts.  They  have  offered  to  contribute,  at  their 
own  cost,  contingents  of  colonial  troops  to  our  forces  at  war  in  the  Sou- 
dan. It  was  not  without  reason  that  I  concluded  my  letter  to  Mr.  Meri- 
vale  with  the  acknowledgment  that  on  political  questions  my  opinions  are 
nothing  more  than  conjectures. 


198  Autohiograjphy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

an  alliance  offensive  and  defensive,  -which  shall  have  the 
elements  of  stability  under  pressure.  I  suppose  the  gov- 
ernment had  no  alternative  hut  to  throw  away  a  few 
hundred  thousands  on  fortifications  till  time  and  circum- 
stance shall  shape  their  course;  but  I  hope  the  colonists 
will  be  given  to  understand  that  it  is  not  within  the 
competency  of  one  government  and  one  House  of  Com- 
mons to  bind  the  country  to  a  principle  and  a  permanent 
course  of  policy,  any  more  than  it  is  competent  to  a 
British  North  American  legislature  to  offer  a  correlative 
pledge." 

And  shortly  after  I  wrote  to  Sir  F.  Elliot  in  the  same 
sense,  contending  against  pledges,  and  adding:  "I  think, 
also,  we  should  not  take  any  practical  step  which  might, 
unless  accompanied  by  an  intimation  to  the  contrary, be  con- 
strued into  an  understanding  on  the  subject  which  it  might 
be  disreputable  hereafter  to  depart  from.  The  tendency  of 
the  debates  in  the  House  of  Commons  since  Lowe's  speech 
seems  to  be  so  strongly  and  so  generally  in  the  right  direc- 
tion that  I  should  think  the  government  can  have  no  dif- 
ficulty in  keeping  out  of  such  an  understanding.  I  suppose 
that  the  £50,000  was  in  reality  the  straw  thrown  up,  and 
that  it  is  clear  to  them  now  which  way  the  wind  blows. 
You  and  I,  w^ho  have  some  thirty  or  forty  years'  knowl- 
edge of  colonial  legislatures,  can  judge,  as  well  perhaps 
as  better  politicians,  what  would  be  to  be  expected  from 
an  attempt  at  co-operation  between  this  country  and  those 
provinces  in  giving  effect,  not  to  specific  engagements 
embodied  in  legislative  acts,  but  to  principles  and  under- 
standings. If  '  put  not  your  trust  in  princes '  be  a  salu- 
tary admonition,  much  more  '  put  not  your  trust  in  peo- 
ples.' 

"As  to  annexation,  so  far  as  this  country  is  concerned, 
I  think  no  difficulties  wdiatever  should  be  thrown  in  the 


Colonial  Policy.  199 

way  of  it.  But  I  imagine  that  nothing  short  of  force  or 
terror  Avould  bring  the  British  provinces  to  consent  to 
such  an  annexation  as  would  devolve  on  them  a  share  of 
the  wars  and  war-debts  of  the  United  States.  I  should 
not  look,  therefore,  to  such  an  annexation  or  *  accession ' 
of  Canada  as  was  contemplated  in  the  11th  of  the  Arti- 
cles of  Confederation  of  1st  March,  1781,  with  the  liabil- 
ities accruing  under  the  3d  and  8th  of  the  same  articles — 
nor  should  I  contemplate  an  annexation  under  the  Arti- 
cles of  the  Constitution  of  1787,  without  a  material  modi- 
fication of  article  1,  section  8,  which  empowers  Congress 
to  pay  the  debts  of  the  United  States,  and  to  impose  tax- 
es for  the  purpose,  and  to  borrow  money,  and  to  raise  and 
support  armies  at  the  cost  of  all  the  states.  But  I  can 
conceive  that  some  annexation  or  accession  might  be  ne- 
gotiated, establishing  some  specific  federal  relation  of  a 
less  incorporating  character,  to  the  contentment  of  the 
Canadians,  if  that  would  satisfy  the  ambition  of  the 
United  States.  Whether  such  a  negotiation  should  be 
undertaken  seems  to  me  to  be  for  the  consideration  of 
the  Canadians  ;  and,  if  undertaken,  I  think  it  should 
be  concluded  by  them  with  our  sanction,  and  not  by  us. 
I  think  it  may  be  doubted  whether  this  or  any  other  ad- 
dition to  the  states  of  the  Union  would  add  to  its  power 
as  a  nation.  As  to  our  maritime  provinces,  they  seem  to 
be  generally  regarded  as  standing  upon  a  different  footing 
from  Canada,  and  involving  imperial  interests  more  di- 
rectly; and  Halifax  is  spoken  of  as  a  great  naval  strong- 
hold and  depot  or  base  of  operations.  But  is  it  not  a  fact 
that  the  importance  of  a  naval  station  and  predominance 
in  those  seas  arises  chiefly  out  of  our  territorial  possessions 
thereabouts?  If  Ave  had  nothing  to  protect  and  nothing 
to  quarrel  about  in  those  parts,  might  not  our  navy  be 
content  with  Bermuda  ?    There  are  the  fisheries  ;  but  in 


200  Aiitohiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

concert  with  France  I  think  an  arrangement  might  be  de- 
vised which  would  make  it  the  interest  of  the  United 
States  not  to  quarrel  about  them." 

Sir  F.  Rogers  looked  at  the  question  from  another, 
though  not  an  opposite,  point  of  view :  "  I  go  very  far 
with  you  in  the  desire  to  shake  off  all  responsibly  gov- 
erned colonies;  and  as  to  North  America,  I  think  if  we 
abandon  one  we  had  better  abandon  all.  I  should  wholly 
abhor  being  left  with  a  pitiful  remnant  on  my  hands — say 
Prince  Edward  Island  or  Newfoundland.  I  also  go  with 
you  in  hating  the  talk  about  prestige.  But  I  think  our 
present  relation  to  Canada  involves  an  understanding  that 
we  are  not  to  let  other  people  take  them  from  us  unless 
they  like  to  go.  And  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  allowing 
them  to  be  taken  from  us  for  fear  of  consequences  to 
ourselves  in  the  Avay  of  war  and  taxation  would  be  one  of 
those  ungenerous,  chicken-hearted  proceedings  which, 
somehow  or  other,  bring  their  own  punishment  in  the  long 
run,  and  indicate  the  declining  spirit  of  a  nation.  There 
is  something  beyond  philosophy,  or  at  least  my  philoso- 
phy, in  such  doings.  I  cannot  justify  Bruce  for  giving 
battle  on  disadvantageous  ground  rather  than  abandon  a 
woman  in  labor;  yet  I  not  only  honor  him  for  it,  but  feel 
that,  if  he  had  not  been  the  man  to  do  that,  he  would  not 
have  been  the  mr.n  to  win  all  that  he  did  win.  So  of 
Canada :  nothing  can  be  more  provoking  than  to  be 
obliged  (if  we  arc  obliged)  to  fight  the  United  Slates  in 
the  place  and  manner  which  is  most  disadvantageous  to 
ourselves,  for  a  colony  which  is  no  good  to  us  and  has  no 
real  care  for  us.  Yet,  somehoAV,  I  would  not  wish  Eng- 
land to  refrain  from  doing  so;  for  England  would  not  be 
great,  courageous,  successful  England  if  she  did.  I  am 
not  sure  that  this  is  inconsistent  with  your  letters.  In- 
deed, I  understand  you  as  wishing,  not  that  we  should  re- 


Governors^  Pensions.  201 

pudiate  the  obligation,  but  that  we  should  let  it  wear  out, 
and  help  it,  as  occasion  maj'^  offer,  to  do  so." 

I  find  in  this  year  of  18G5  two  or  three  letters  on  minor 
points  of  colonial  policy  which  may  have  some  claim  to 
the  little  room  they  will  occupy.  I  had  taken  an  active 
part  in  advocating  a  measure  for  pensioning  colonial  gov- 
ernors on  their  retirement;  and  the  measure  devised  in 
the  colonial  office  had  been,  in  my  opinion,  a  good  one: 
but  it  had  lost  its  character  on  its  way  through  the  treas- 
ury. I  wrote  about  it  to  Sir  F.  Rogers  (18th  May,  1865): 
"The  governors'  pension  bill  disappoints  me  much.  It  is 
true  that  it  will  make  adequate  provision  for  the  officers 
to  be  benefited  by  it.  But  I  never  made  much  account 
of  the  plea  of  justice  to  the  officers.  They  knew  the  con- 
ditions and  accepted  the  service.  What  seemed  to  me 
worth  considering  was  the  public  interests.  The  bill  will 
not,  as  we  had  hoped,  help  us  in  weeding  the  service;  but 
on  the  contrary,  as  you  say,  it  will  materially  hinder  us. 
In  all  cases  in  which  the  secretary  of  state  has  been  or 
shall  be  betrayed  into  appointing  an  unfit  man  (and  it  is  a 
service  in  which  fitness  cannot  be  known  without  trial), 
he  will  be  almost  constrained  to  continue  him  in  employ- 
ment till  he  shall  have  earned  a  pension;  and  this  will  not 
be  till  he  is  sixty  years  of  age.  And,  as  you  observe,  the 
bill  will  not  aid  the  transference  of  the  best  men  in  the 
permanent  colonial  service  to  an  administrative  career; 
since,  under  section  11,  their  permanent  colonial  service 
will  not  count  towards  a  governor's  pension.  It  may  be 
that  a  better  field  of  candidates  will  be  opened  at  home 
than  we  have  had  heretofore;  but  the  permanent  colonial 
service  Avould  always  be  a  most  important  field;  and  in 
the  last  twenty  years  it  has  given  us  most  of  our  first-rate 
governors — Stephenson, AYalker,  "Wodehouse  among  them. 
As  to  tlie  six  years'  tenure,  I  am  disposed  to  think  that  it 
II.— 9* 


202  Autohiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

would  be  better  on  the  whole  to  adhere  to  the  rule  rather 
strictly.  Where  personal  interests  are  so  much  concerned, 
it  is  diflScult  to  maintain  a  rule  in  some  cases  and  relax  it 
in  others.  But  //"relaxations  were  to  be  admitte>d,  I  be- 
lieve it  would  be  better  to  grant  a  second  six  years'  term 
than  to  grant  indefinite  prolongations.  I  believe  a  gov- 
ernor loses  much  of  the  influence  required  for  successful 
administration  as  he  approaches  the  end  of  his  term;  and 
when  he  is  allowed  to  hang  on  in  uncertainty  he  does  not 
regain  it.  He  is  su2:)ported  wath.a  flagging  zeal  by  his  ad- 
herents, and  opposed  by  adverse  parties  with  a  more  un- 
bridled hostility,  '  semper  atrociore  erga  dominantium 
exitus.' "  * 

The  fact  noticed  in  this  letter,  that  for  twenty  years  past 
some  of  our  best  colonial  governors  had  been  obtained  by 
transference  from  the  permanent  civil  service  of  the  colo- 
nies, is  to  be  credited  to  the  operation  of  the  Parliament- 
ary Reform  Act  of  1832.  A  governor's  tenure  of  ofiice, 
both  before  that  act  and  since,  was  limited  to  six  years. 
Before  the  reform  of  Parliament  the  pressure  brought  to 
bear  upon  the  secretary  of  state  by  the  owners  of  rotten 
boroughs  constrained  him  not  seldom  to  send  out  unfit 
men  from  England.  After  the  reform  bill  this  pressure 
ceased;  and  appointments  were  made,  not,  indeed — or  very 
rarely — of  born  colonists,  but  of  Englishmen  employed  and 
tested  in  the  more  arduous  and  important  colonial  offices 
below  that  of  governors.  There  was  at  one  time  a  notion 
abroad  that  born  colonists  themselves  should  be  chosen, 
and  this  led  to  a  word  of  caution  from  me  in  a  letter  of 
February,  1865: 

"It  may  be  as  well  to  take  this  opportunity  of  saying 
that  I  believe  it  to  be  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  people  of 

*  Tac.  "Ann.,"  4,  xi. 


Choice  of  Governors.       ,  203 

color  like  to  be  governed  by  a  person  of  color,  or  that  col- 
onists like  to  be  governed  by  a  colonist.  On  the  contrary, 
there  is  a  natural  disposition  in  a  colony  to  prefer  what  is 
less  familiar  as  that  to  which  they  are  to  look  up;  "  es- 
sendo  vizio  comune  degli  iiomini  volere  piiltosto  servire 
agli  strani  che  cedere  a  suoi  medesimi,"  as  was  observed 
by  Guicciardini  long  ago.  The  appointment  w^hich  is  most 
acceptable  in  a  colony,  generally  speaking,  is  of  an  aristo- 
cratic personage,  if  he  can  be  had;  if  not,  a  metropolitan 
person.  Now  and  then,  when  a  Creole  or  a  born  colonist 
is  so  pre-eminent  and  so  popular  as  to  be  a  sort  of  rej)- 
resentative  of  his  class,  his  appointment  to  the  highest 
offices  may  be  popular;  but  this  rarely  happens,  and  it  can 
scarcely  happen  at  all  except  in  a  large  and  important 
community.  I  do  not  mention  these  things  as  any  reason 
why  native  colonists,  who  may  be  found  to  deserve  ad- 
vancement to  the  highest  offices,  should  not  be  advanced; 
but  rather  as  a  caveat,  lest  it  be  supposed  that  in  such 
cases  defect  of  desert  would  be  made  good  by  popularity." 


Chapter  XVIII. 

MARRIAGES  AND  DEATHS. 

Anno  Dom.  1858-C8.     Anno  iEx.  58-C8. 

The  years  of  which  I  am  Avriting  were,  in  more  kinds 
than  one,  years  of  dei)rivation.  Most  of  my  girl  friends 
were  going  away  from  mo  in  marriage: 

"Con  altri  fanciiilletti 
Ivano  essercitando 
Gli  scherzi  puerili ; 
Ma  con  loro  giocaiido 
Fieramente  sclieizava 
Un  fanciul  cieco  e  nudo."* 

Mary  Spring  Rice  was  married  to  Edward  O'Brien, 
Lucy  Spring  Rice  to  Octavius  Knox,  Theresa  Villiers  to 
Charles  Earle,  Elizabeth  Villiers  to  Henry  Loch,  Edith 
Villiers  to  Robert  Lytton,  Arabella  Prescott  to  Richard 
Decie,  and  Julia  Cameron  to  Charles  Norman.  They  had 
all  been  dear  and  deliglilfiil  to  me  as  children,  and  our 
friendship  had  grown  with  their  growth.  I  had  my  com- 
pensations, however;  for  while  these  were  passing  from 
girlhood  into  married  life,  the  two  elder  of  my  daughters 
were  passing,  or  about  to  pass,  from  childhood  into  girl- 
hood; and  whether  as  children  or  as  girls  my  own  three 
were  the  abiding  indemnity  for  every  loss. 

The  first  of  the  seven  marriages,  that  of  Mary  Spring 
Rice,  took  place  on  the  7th  September,  1803.    The  beauty 

*  "Sampogna  di  Marino." 


Marriages  and  Deaths.  205 

that  was  then  given  in  marriage,  and  the  joy  that  went 
with  it,  were  of  a  high  order  and  a  rare  excellence ;  but 
they  were  a  joy  and  beauty  destined  to  a  few  years  of 
precarious  existence  and  an  early  end.     They  were: 

"Beauty  that  must  die, 
And  Joy  whose  hand  is  ever  at  his  lips 
Bidding  adieu."  * 

Mary's  health,  which  had  not  been  strong  before,  gave 
way  in  a  year  or  two,  and  she  died  in  1868.  I  have  wished 
and  tried  to  leave  some  record  of  her,  as  I  did  of  Edward 
Villiers  long  ago;  for  they  were  equal,  though  not  alike, 
in  the  charm  and  radiance  which  each  of  them  threw 
across  a  portion  of  my  life.  But  the  weakness  of  spirits 
belonging  to  old  age  disables  me. 

Early  in  the  year  1865  she  had  lost  her  father,  a  man  of 
more  than  ordinary  talents,  high  cultivation,  and  an  ar- 
dent and  affectionate  nature ;  and  there  had  been  other 
deaths  among  our  friends  and  connections  when  I  wrote 
to  her  in  September:  "In  these  evil  days  I  have  often 
turned  my  thoughts  to  you  for  -mj  comfort  and  consola- 
tion, and  all  that  I  could  get  of  that  kind  was  not  more 
than  I  stood  in  need  of;  but  when  Theo  told  me  that  there 
were  some  plans  for  your  coming  next  spring  and  bring- 
ing her  with  you,  I  was  not  in  a  sanguine  mood,  and  I  did 
not  count  upon  it  much;  and  next  spring  seemed  too  far, 
and  death  flying  about  too  near,  to  make  it  much  worth 
while  to  look  forward;  so  I  am  not  greatly  disappointed 
at  hearing  that  you  are  to  dispose  of  yourself  in  other 
ways.  No  doubt  a  visit  from  you  or  Theo  would  light  up 
these  evening  hours  of  mine,  cloud  and  rain  notwithstand- 
ing, and  notwithstanding  the  clouds  that  return  after  the 
rain ;  but  if  I  am  not  to  see  you  or  her  again  except  in 

*  Keats. 


206  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

such  fugitive  visits  as  yours  Avcrc  in  the  spring,  I  have 
still  one  satisfaction — that  nothing  you  could  bring  me 
for  the  future  in  the  way  of  sunset  colors  could  be  what  I 
should  more  love  to  look  back  upon  than  the  past;  and  it 
may  be  as  well  to  rest  in  recollections  and  through  them  to 

'  gaze  forever 
On  that  green  liglit  that  lingers  in  the  west.'"  * 

In  December,  1867,  Mary's  death  was  approaching,  and 
I  spoke  of  its  approach  in  a  letter  to  Lady  Taunton:  "She 
writes  gayly  that  she  is  a  little  stronger  since  she  reached 
Mentone,  and  can  walk  a  little,  and  does  not  feel  *  quite  so 
much  as  if  she  might  fall  into  the  first  grave  she  came  to 
without  asking  whom  it  is  for;'  but  the  hopes  of  her  re- 
covery are  less  and  less  continually,  and  I  must  expect  to 
lose  shortly  the  dearest  and  most  affectionate  friend  I 
have  in  that  generation."  The  ardor  of  her  affection  for 
those  she  was  leaving  was  with  her  to  the  last;  and  not  this 
only;  for,  feminine  as  her  nature  was  in  every  fibre  of  it, 
she  had  fervent  feelings  seldom  to  be  met  with  in  women, 
at  least  in  women  with  such  steady  strength  of  under- 
standing as  she  possessed,  concerning  public  interests,  es- 
pecially those  connected  with  Ireland;  and  this  strength 
and  these  ardors  also  remained  with  her  while  life  re- 
mained. When  Alice  spoke  of  her  love  of  her  country,  so 
strong  in  death,  to  Lord  Russell  (of  whom,  while  much  is 
known  to  the  world,  much  also  is  unknown)  the  aged 
statesman  could  not  listen  to  the  relation  Avithout  tears. 

A  bust  of  Mary  was  executed  in  marble  by  an  eminent 
artist,  Mr.  Munro.  It  accomplished,  perhaps,  all  that 
sculjiture  could  accomplish,  and  the  effect  is  fine  in  its 
way;  but  her  face  was  a  fitter  subject  for  a  painter  than 
a  sculptor;  there  was  a  richness  and  variety  of  transitional 

*  Coleridge,  "  Ode  to  Dejection," 


Mrs.  Edward  O'Brien.  207 

expressions  which  neither  art  could  render,  but  of  which 
the  one  might  have  afforded  a  better  indication  or  sugges- 
tion than  the  other.  My  painter  in  "  St,  Clement's  Eve  " 
has  said  that  a  portrait  should  be  pregnant  with  many  ex- 
pressions and  delivered  of  one.  It  is  by  such  a  portrait 
only  that  Mary's  face  could  be  even  approximately  repre- 
sented. Her  sister  having  written  to  tell  me  that  the  bust 
was  on  its  way,  I  wrote  in  reply:  "  I  doubt  whether  any 
representation  of  Mary  will  come  right  to  me.  I  have  no 
pleasure  certainly  in  the  photographs;  nor  should  I  like 
anything  which  would  disturb  or  perplex  the  image  of 
her  in  my  mind  and  memory.  In  my  estimation  her  beauty 
was  at  its  highest  point  during  the  first  two  months  at 
Bournemouth  last  summer.  Once  during  that  time  I  saw 
in  her  face  for  a  few  moments  a  rapt  and  absorbed  expres- 
sion which  was  more  divinely  beautiful  than  I  have  ever 
seen  in  any  face  except  once  for  a  few  moments  in  one 
other.  That  other  was  one  *  whose  face  you  never  saw 
till  altered  by  time  and  suffierings." 

A  few  verses  by  one  of  Mary's  younger  friends  in  ray 
family  may  find  themselves  in  accord  with  the  time  and 

occasion: 

"  A  severed  thread,  a  broken  life, 

But  little  at  the  best ; 

Peace  fiom  tlie  turmoil  and  the  strife, 

A  little  earlier  rest ; 

"  A  little  longer,  closer  kiss, 
A  tenderer  adieu, 
A  little  aching  when  we  miss 
The  loving  face  we  knew  ; 

"And  then  another  broken  thread, 
And  other  hearts  made  sad  ; 
Another  meeting  overhead, 
Two  souls  forever  glad." 

*  Miss  Fenwick's. 


208  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

If  there  Avas  any  one  of  my  girl  friendships  out  of  our 
families  to  be  compared  in  its  ardor  and  intimacy  with 
that  Avhich  was  thus  brought  to  an  end,  it  was  my  friend- 
ship with  Julia  Cameron.  She  was  married  in  1859.  This 
marriage  also  was  one  of  the  happiest  that  I  have  known 
until  her  health  broke  down;  and  this,  like  the  other,  was 
followed,  though  at  a  much  longer  interval,  by  an  almost 
youthful  death. 

There  has  not  fallen  under  my  observation  any  nature 
and  character  which  was  so  singular  as  hei's,  or  so  incon- 
ceivable by  those  who  have  not  seen  and  known  it.  There 
is  a  charm  in  what  is  called  originality  which  every  one 
can  understand.  An  entire  simplicity,  an  unconscious 
honesty  of  mind,  so  founded  in  nature  that  no  principle 
could  be  needed  to  guard  or  support  it,  strength  of  under- 
standing and  clearness  of  purpose,  with  a  composure  small 
disturbances  could  never  ruffle,  a  liveliness  of  the  inner 
mind  which  was  recognized  the  more  the  less  it  sought 
recognition;  these,  or  some  of  these,  in  one  or  another 
combination,  are  to  be  met  with,  if  not  often,  yet  not  so 
rarely  but  that  every  one  may  have  examples  within  his 
ex])erienco.  But  in  Julia  Cameron  they  did  not  appear  in 
any  likeness  that  was  to  be  met  with  elsewhere.  And 
when  I  try  to  make  out  what  it  was  that  distinguished  her 
from  other  natural  and  original  persons,  I  can  think  of 
nothing  capable  of  being  written  down  except  this,  that 
having  been  born  of  parents  who  were  no  more  ordinary 
in  their  ways  than  in  their  gifts  and  faculties  and  powers, 
there  occurred,  in  the  case  of  the  daughter,  that  sort  of 
resilience  which  is  so  often-observed  that  it  may  almost  be 
regarded  as  a  provision  of  nature,  and  her  originality  took, 
along  with  other  forms,  the  form  of  a  determination  to  be 
commonplace.  Commonjilacc  otherwise  than  externally 
she  never  could    be,   let  her  determination  be  what   it 


Mrs.  Charles  Norman.  209 

might;  but  I  think  the  intention  to  be  like  other  people 
in  all  things  possible  gave  a  peculiar  color  and  distinct- 
ness to  the  inborn  individuality  Avhich  no  outward  con- 
formity could  conceal. 

This  said  says  so  little,  that  I  am  reminded  of  "a  8onnet 
ichich  saith  that  the  Lost  One  cannot  he  made  Jcnoicn  to 
those  neio  friends  which  come  after'''' : 

"  I  lionor  thee  by  silence,  and  thy  praise 
I  would  not  undertake ;  yet  now  my  heart, 
Sodden  by  tears,  its  firmness  gone  in  part, 
At  one  inquiring  mood,  one  kindly  phrase, 
Rebellious  at  the  bonds  I  set,  will  raise 
A  picture  of  thee,  futile,  blurred,  and  faint, 
Drawn  from  a  memory.     Yet  sliall  restraint 
Be  once  more  paramount,  that  in  my  ways 
No  strife  with  fate  be  seen.     God  doth  erase, 
And  man  may  not  rewrite.     Mnjestic  gloom 
Descends  upon  what  was,  and  in  the  tomb 
All  record  that  I  iiad  to  show  decays, 
And  this  by  ordinance  of  God.     His  will 
Decrees  a  blank  nor  tongue  nor  pen  can  fill." 

This  sonnet,  from  a  volume  of  poems,  few,  but  beauti- 
ful, by  Mrs.  Knox,  born  Spring  Rice,  expresses  what  I 
have  felt  in  attempting  to  describe  Mary  O'Brien  and 
Julia  Norman,  and  what  I  feel  in  desisting  from  the  at- 
tempt.* 

The  other  marriages  of  that  time  were  happy  ones  from 
the  first  and  are  so  still;  and  though  every  such  union 
brings  some  inevitable  separations,  and  I  had  perhaps  a 
rather  strong  sympathy  M'ith  the  parental  feeling,  which 
cannot  but  be  a  mixed  one,  yet  I  knew  that  I  ought  to  re- 
joice in  them,  and  I  hope  and  believe  that  I  did. 


*  Since  this  was  written,  the  volume  has  been  published  by  Smith  & 
Elder,  15  Waterloo  Place,  187G. 


210  Axddbiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

In  the  years  between  18G5  and  1870  we  lost  five  other 
relatives,  only  one  of  whom  (Loi'd  Monteagle)  had  entered 
upon  old  age. 

Some  of  these  losses  were  among  the  greatest  events 
of  my  life,  and  it  is  for  this  reason  that  I  am  unable  to 
give  an  account  of  them. 

On  the  16th  May,  187C,  I  lost  my  eldest  son. 


Chapter  XIX. 

THE  INSURRECTION  OF  18G5  IN  JAMAICA.— MARTIAL  LAW. 

Anno  Dom.  I8G5-G7.     Anno  ^t.  G5-G7. 

TowAEDS  the  end  of  the  year  1865  an  event  occurred 
which  brought  upon  me  during  the  last  months  of  that 
year  and  the  first  half  of  1866  an  unusual  pressure  of  official 
work  and  anxiety.  This  was  the  insurrection  of  the  ne- 
groes in  Jamaica,  in  October,  1865.  On  the  11th  of  that 
month  some  hundreds  of  them,  who  for  some  time  past 
bad  been  secretly  formed  into  companies  and  drilled  in 
the  mountains,  marched  down  upon  St.  Morant's  Bay,  in 
the  parish  of  St.  Thomas-in-the-East,  at  which  a  court  of 
petty  sessions  had  been  sitting,  and  eighteen  magistrates, 
clergymen,  and  others  were  shot  and  beaten  and  hacked  to 
pieces,  and  thirty-one  wounded. 

Mr.  Eyre,  the  govei'nor,  forthwith  adopted  the  proceed- 
ings required  under  a  Jamaica  statute  for  proclaiming 
martial  law.  It  was  proclaimed  as  soon  as  these  proceed- 
ings could  be  completed,  which  was  on  the  13th  October; 
and  it  extended  over  the  county  of  Surrey,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  Kingston,  The  governor  was  urged  to  include 
Kingston,  but  refused. 

Though  not  himself  a  soldier.  Governor  Eyre  made  his 
military  dispositions  with  military  promptitude,  skill,  and 
vigor,  himself  accompanying  the  troops;  and  the  insur- 
rection in  the  county  of  Surrey  was  brought  to  an  end 
in  about  ten  days.  But  there  was  no  reason  to  suppose 
that  the  island  was  safe  elsewhere.     He  hastened  back  to 


212  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

Kingston,  where  he  searched  out  the  sources  of  danger, 
and  in  a  few  days  obtained  information  which  convinced 
him  that  a  colored  member  of  assembly  named  Gordon 
had  been  in  league  with  the  insurgent  leaders  in  St. 
Thomas-in-the-East,  and  that  he  was  also  in  a  treasonable 
league  with  a  Dr.  Bruce,  and  with  a  Mr.  Levien,  the  editor 
of  a  newspaper,  at  the  opposite  extremity  of  the  island. 
On  the  strength  of  this  information  the  governor  arrested 
Mr.  Gordon  in  Kingston,  where  martial  law  was  not  in 
operation,  and  sent  him  to  Morant  Bay,  where  it  was, 
and  where  he  was  tried  by  court-martial,  convicted,  and 
executed. 

What  with  existing  emergencies  and  what  with  out- 
looks for  times  to  come,  the  governor  had  his  hands  full 
at  Kingston.  He  was  busied,  not  only  with  alarming  re- 
ports from  the  custodes  and  others  in  every  parish  of  the 
island,  and  with  the  investigations  to  which  they  led,  but 
also  with  another  species  of  duty,  and  one  which  involved 
questions  of  paramount  importance  to  the  future  welfare 
of  the  island.  The  assembly,  hitherto  so  jealous  of  its  in- 
dependence and  pernicious  power,  partook  of  the  prevail- 
ing panic,  and  becoming  aware  that  there  was  an  element 
of  danger  in  its  own  composition,  was  induced  to  negoti- 
ate with  the  governor  for  constitutional  changes  by  which 
the  authority  of  the  crown  might  be  increased.  In  the 
conduct  of  this  negotiation  there  was  no  time  to  be  lost; 
for  with  the  subsidence  of  the  panic  the  assembly's  love 
and  pride  of  power  would  be  sure  to  revive. 

While  the  governor  was  thus  engrossed  at  Kingston,  the 
officers  under  Brigadier- general  Nelson,  in  the  area  of 
martial  law,  were  employed  in  pursuing  the  insurgents 
and  holding  courts-martial  on  those  who  were  charged 
with  participation  in  the  massacre  of  the  11th  at  Morant 
Bay,  or  with  other  insurrectionary  crimes;  and  no  less 


Iiisiirrectton  in  Jamaica.  213 

than  three  hundred  and  fifty-four  sentences  of  death  were 
pronounced  and  executed.  The  deaths  otherwise  occa- 
sioned in  the  course  of  the  military  operations,  by  the 
soldiers  and  the  maroons  in  alliance  with  them,  made  up 
the  total  lives  sacrificed  to  four  hundred  and  thirty-nine. 
Martial  law  was  left  in  force  for  the  maximum  term  of 
one  month  assigned  by  the  Jamaica  statute.  When  the 
news  reached  England  two  parties  were  formed;  the  one 
abounding  in  admiration  of  the  coolness,  energy,  and  skill 
by  which  the  governor  had  suppressed  a  local  and  averted 
a  general  insurrection  of  the  negroes;  the  other  equally 
abounding  in  censure  of  the  severities  exercised  in  the 
process,  and  especially  denouncing  as  unlawful  and  un- 
pardonable the  transference  of  Gordon  from  Kingston 
to  Morant  Bay,  and  his  trial  and  execution  under  martial 
law. 

A  commission  of  inquiry  was  sent  to  Jamaica,  and,  after 
taking  evidence  for  four  months,  they  came  to  the  con- 
clusion that,  though  the  original  and  immediate  design  for 
the  overthrow  of  constituted  authority  was  confined  to  a 
small  portion  of  the  parish  of  St.  Thomas-in-the-East,  yet 
the  disorder  in  fact  spread  with  singular  rapidity  over  an 
extensive  tract  of  country,  and  that,  had  more  than  a  mo- 
mentary success  been  obtained  by  the  insurgents,  their 
ultimate  overthrow  Avould  have  been  attended  with  a  still 
more  fearful  loss  of  life  and  property;  and  they  came  to 
the  further  conclusion  that  praise  was  due  to  Governor 
Eyre  for  his  skill,  promptitude,  and  vigor,  to  -which  the 
speedy  termination  of  the  insurrection  was  in  a  great 
measure  to  be  attributed;  and  they  added  that  martial 
law  was  continued  in  force  too  long  ;  that  the  punishment 
of  death  was  unnecessarily  frequent;  and  that  other  pun- 
ishments had  been  reckless,  wanton,  and  cruel. 

As  to  the  case  of  Gordon,  the  commissioners  said  it  was 


214  Atddbiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

clear  that  his  conduct  had  been  such  as  to  convince  both 
friends  and  enemies  that  he  had  been  a  party  to  the  insur- 
rection; but  they  found  no  sufficient  proof  of  it  in  the  evi- 
dence before  the  court-martial ;  and  they  thought  that  what 
his  conduct  amoimted  to  was  adequately  represented  by 
what  he  had  said  of  himself  shortly  before  the  rebellion 
broke  out:  "I  have  just  gone  as  far  as  I  can  go,  but  no 
farther.  I  have  been  asked  several  times  to  head  a  re- 
bellion; but  there  is  no  fear  of  that.  I  will  try  first  a 
demonstration  of  it." 

The  effect  of  the  proceedings  against  Gordon  upon  his 
allies  in  the  West  is  exemplified  by  the  tone  of  Levien's 
newspaper  on  the  17th,  when  tlic  news  of  the  massacre 
had  reached  him,  contrasted  with  the  tone  on  the  24th, 
when  the  arrest  of  Gordon  was  known.  At  the  first  date, 
he  threatens  the  governor :  "  A  stern  lesson  will  have  been 
taught  him,  the  true  meaning  of  which  he  shall  learn 
through  the  columns  of  this  journal,  so  soon  as  the  full  de- 
tails of  the  bloody  tragedy  are  at  our  command.  It  is  by 
no  means  our  intention  to  spare  the  rod  and  spoil  the  child 
....  What  will  he  write  to  the  colonial  secretary  as  to 
the  blood  which  testifies  against  his  fatal  misrule,"  etc. 
At  the  second  date  he  writes:  "It  cannot  be  denied  that 
to  the  master  spirit  of  his  excellency  the  governor — to  the 
energy,  prudence,  and  unhesitating  action  of  Mr.  Eyre,  the 
island  and  its  people  owe  a  debt  of  gratitude  worthy  of 
everlasting  memory.  Never  has  a  righteous  execution  so 
instantly  followed  execrable  crime,"  etc. 

The  commissioners,  in  describing  Avhat  had  been  done, 
for  the  most  part  left  it  to  others  to  assign  and  portion 
out  the  responsibility  for  the  several  proceedings  to  the 
several  parties  concerned.  But  Governor  Eyre,  from  first 
to  last,  took  the  generous  course  of  shifting  no  responsi- 
bility which  it  was  possible  for  him  to  share;  and  though 


Lord  Chief  Justice  on  Martial  Law.  215 

much  of  what  was  done  by  the  military  men  in  St.  Thomas- 
in-the-East  while  he  was  at  Kingston  can  have  been  but 
imperfectly  known  to  him  at  the  time,  he  disavowed 
nothing;  and  though  his  authority,  was  not  asked  or  re- 
quired for  the  execution  of  Gordon,  he,  in  common  with 
the  commander  of  the  forces,  expressly  approved  it. 

I  have  related  the  principal  facts  in  this  insurrection, 
chiefly  on  account  of  certain  questions  of  great  and  per- 
'manent  importance  which  arose  out  of  it — questions  con- 
cerning the  nature  and  incidence  of  martial  law.  The  par- 
ty which  denounced  the  severities  used  in  its  suppression, 
and  especially  the  execution  of  Gordon  (called  by  some 
the  po^yular  party,  though  7"  can  hardly  call  it  so,  for  John 
Mill  lost  his  seat  for  Westminster  in  consequence  of  his 
connection  with  it),  caused  Brigadier-general  Nelson,  un- 
der whose  orders  Gordon  was  executed,  and  Lieutenant 
Brand,  Avho  presided  at  the  court-martial  which  tried  him, 
to  be  indicted  for  murder;  and  the  Lord  Chief  Justice  of 
England,  in  a  charge  occupying,  I  think,  ten  hours  in  the 
delivery,  professed  to  instruct  the  grand  jury  on  the  sub- 
ject of  martial  law. 

When  the  commissioners  had  been  about  to  depart  for 
Jamaica,  I  had  been  present  at  a  conference  between  one 
of  them  and  the  colonial  secretary  of  state,  and  I  took  oc- 
casion then  to  say  that,  in  my  opinion,  the  question  they 
would  have  to  determine  was,  not  what  was  lawful,  but 
what  lawlessness  was  justifiable;  and  that  opinion  I  re- 
tained when  the  charge  of  the  lord  chief  justice  Avas  de- 
livered. But  that  was  not  the  opinion  of  the  lord  chief 
justice.  What  else  was  his  opinion  it  Avas  not  easy  to  col- 
lect. Perhaps  his  lordship  thought  it  desirable  that  to 
whatever  decision  the  grand  jury  might  come  it  should 
not  be  in  any  manifest  opposition  to  his  charge.  But  it 
appeared  to  me,  and  it  appears  to  me  still,  that  a  charge 


216  Autobiography  of  Jlcnry  Taylor. 

which  was  at  once  of  such  high  authority  and  of  such 
doubtful  meaning  could  not  be  placed  on  record  and 
take  effect  upon  governors  or  commanders  of  the  forces 
placed  in  critical  circumstances,  without  involving  the 
possibility  of  disaster  and  deep  injury  at  one  time  or  an- 
other to  one  portion  or  another  of  the  dominions  of  the 
crown.  And  the  view  which  I  took  of  its  tenor  I  ex- 
pressed in  a  letter  of  the  13th  June,  1867,  to  Lord  Blach- 
f  ord,  then  Sir  Frederic  Rogers,  and  under  secretary  of  state 
for  the  colonies  : 

"  I  do  not  know  whether  you  have  seen  the  pamphlet 
just  published,  being  the  lord  chief  justice's  charge  in  the 
cases  of  Nelson  and  lirand  revised  and  amplified  into  a 
sort  of  treatise.  I  have  read  it  with  some  disappointment, 
as  I  did  the  charge  when  reported  in  the  newspapers. 

"  If  it  were  not  that  some  censorious  people  might  say 
I  spoke  out  of  ignorance  and  presumption,  I  should  feel 
inclined  to  say  that  the  chief  justice's  treatise  was  some- 
what deficient,  largely  redundant,  and  more  or  less  un- 
steady. But  what  seems  to  me  more  pertinent  to  our 
business  is  the  conclusion  to  which  he  comes — that  if  mar- 
tial law  is  to  be  exercised  at  all  (and  he  seems  to  assume, 
page  160,  first  paragraph  of  his  last  note,  that  it  cannot 
always  be  dispensed  with),  it  should  be  defined  and  regu- 
lated by  legislative  enactment.  The  course  taken  by  this 
department  has  been  the  reverse;  for  we  have  issued  in- 
structions for  the  repeal  of  all  legislative  enactments 
authorizing  martial  law,  and  we  have  declared  that  if  it  is 
to  be  resorted  to  at  all  it  must  be  resorted  to  on  the  re- 
sponsibility of  the  governor,  and  without  the  authority  of 
law.  I  call  your  attention  to  this  as  a  matter  which  should 
not  be  passed  over  unnoticed — not  at  all  Avith  the  inten- 
tion of  suggesting  that  any  alteration  should  be  made  in 
the  instructions  to  governors  of  colonies. 


opinion  of  Lord  Chief  Justice's  Charge.         217 

"  I  gather  from  different  parts  of  the  charge  : 

"  1st.  That  there  may  be  such  a  thing  as  martial  law 
independently  of  statutory  enactment. 

"  2d.  That  there  may  not  be  such  a  thing. 

"3d.  That  if  there  is  such  a  thing,  it  maybe  applicable 
only  to  military  persons. 

"  4th.  That  if  there  is  such  a  thing,  it  may  be  applicable 
to  civilians  also. 

"  oth.  That  if  there  is  such  a  thing  as  martial  law,  it  is 
certainly  not  the  negation  of  all  law. 

"  This  last  is  the  only  distinct  and  positive  conclusion 
which  the  chief  justice  seems  to  have  arrived  at. 

"  As  to  the  definition  and  regulation  of  martial  law  by 
legislation,  this  may  or  may  not  be  expedient;  but  if  it  be 
expedient  I  imagine  that  the  legislation  should  be  effected 
by  the  imperial  Parliament  in  the  first  place,  and  by  the 
colonial  legislatures  on  the  principles  established  by  im- 
perial legislation.  But,  for  my  own  part,  I  doubt  whether 
legislation  by  Parliament  is  either  practicable  or  expedient. 
I  see  no  signs  in  the  chief  justice's  charge  of  attention 
given  to  what  would  be  the  difiiculties  of  defining  and 
regulating  martial  law  by  enactment;  nor  to  the  difiiculties 
of  giving  effect  to  martial  law  in  every  sort  of  emergency 
through  proceedings  predetermined  by  law.  The  chief 
justice  seems  hardly  to  present  any  other  side  of  the  ques- 
tion than  that  which  the  evils  and  outrages  suffered  and 
perpetrated  in  the  execution  of  martial  law  have  suggest- 
ed to  his  mind,  and  he  seems  to  be  occupied  almost  exclusive- 
ly with  the  importance  of  prevention  and  restraint.  The 
facts  of  the  case  before  him,  in  his  own  view  of  them, 
seem  to  have  riveted  his  attention  to  this  side  of  the  sub- 
ject; and  if  his  view  was  a  just  one  and  no  other  could  be 
taken,  this  might  be  all  as  it  should  be  in  charging  a  grand 
jury ;    but    in  recommending  legislation  it  would  surely 

II.— 10 


218  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

have  been  desirable  to  see  how  the  case  would  stand  had 
the  facts  been  other  than  he  conceived  them  to  be,  and,  in- 
deed, to  forecast  a  good  many  possible  facts  and  combina- 
tions which  the  case  before  him  may  not  have  presented. 

"  Take,  for  example,  the  case  of  Gordon,  and,  without 
affirming  or  denying  what  it  actually  was,  suppose  it  to 
have  stood  thus  :  Suppose  that  Gordon  had  had  no  com- 
plicity whatever  in  tlie  outbreak  at  Morant  Bay  or  in  any 
criminal  proceedings  within  the  proclaimed  district  either 
antececent  or  subsequent  to  the  proclamation  of  martial 
law;  suppose  that  there  had  been  proof  of  his  having  been 
engaged  in  treasonable  proceedings  deserving  death  pre- 
ccdently  to  the  proclamation  of  martial  law  and  beyond 
its  limits;  suppose  that  the  insurrection  within  the  limits 
of  martial  law  had  been  totally  suppressed  and  put  an  end 
to  before  the  20th  October,  Avhen  Gordon  was  tried;  sup- 
pose, however,  that  Dr.  Bruce,  or  Mr.  Lcvien,  or  any  other 
persons  who  had  been  allies  or  adherents  of  Gordon  in  his 
treasonable  designs  and  proceedings  in  the  north,  south, 
and  west  of  the  island,  were  at  that  moment  actively  en- 
gaged in  an  endeavor  to  bring  about  an  insurrection  in 
those  parts  and  in  all  parts  Avhere  troops  were  not,  and 
that  they  were  on  the  point  of  succeeding;  suppose  that 
the  execution  of  Gordon  at  that  point  of  time  would  strike 
terror  into  these  other  leaders,  and  by  paralyzing  their  ef- 
forts save  the  island  from  a  general  insurrection;  suppose 
all  these  suppositions  (and  the  case,  if  hypothetical,  which 
it  may  or  may  not  be,  is  at  all  events  such  a  case  as  might 
and  could  occur),  and  then  the  chief  justice,  as  I  under- 
stand him,  would  restrain  by  specific  enactment  the  au- 
thorities administering  martial  law  from  saving  the  island 
by  the  instant  execution'of  Gordon. 

"It  may  be  that  the  chief  justice  thinks  the  mainte- 
nance of  principles  essential  to  the  due  administration 


Opinion  of  Lord  Chief  Justice's  Charge.         219 

of  justice  more  important  to  mankind  than  the  saving  of 
a  particular  community  at  a  particular  time  from  insurrec- 
tion and  massacre;  but  I  think  he  should  have  looked  such 
liypothetical  or  other  cases  in  the  face,  and  that,  when 
recommending  restraints  by  enactment,  he  should  have  at 
least  glanced  at  the  other  side  of  the  question  and  the 
possibility  that  legislation  might  be  best  let  alone,  leaving 
the  officers  administering  martial  law  to  the  restraints, 
however  occasionally  imj^erf ect,  of  their  conscience,  their 
sense  of  responsibility,  their  fear  of  consequences,  and 
their  anticii^ation  of  public  opinion. 

"At  page  120  he  says:  'If  there  is  any  principle  which, 
in  the  exposition  and  application  of  the  criminal  law 
of  this  country,  is  held  more  sacred  than  another,  it  is  that 
you  cannot  by  the  ex  j^ost  facto  application  of  a  law  make 
a  man  liable  to  it  for  an  act  done  before  the  law  came  into 
existence.'  On  this  principle  it  would  seem  that  none  of 
the  crimes  committed  on  the  11th  October  should  have 
been  tried  by  martial  law,  which  was  not  proclaimed  till 
the  13th.  Perhaps  he  would  take  a  distinction  between  an 
ex  post  facto  law  constituting  a  crime  or  assigning  a  pen- 
alty, and  an  ex  post  facto  law  constituting  a  jurisdiction 
and  a  method  of  procedure.  But  this  hardly  appears  in 
the  terms  he  uses.  Nor  is  it  a  principle  which,  in  either 
sense,  can  have  much  to  do  with  martial  law.  It  is  founded 
on  the  assumption  that  a  man  ought  not  to  be  punished 
Avhen  he  has  not  been  forewarned.  It  is  a  principle  by 
which  care  for  the  offender  takes  precedence  of  care  for 
the  public,  and  by  which,  when  the  act  is  icicked  in  itself 
justice  is  not  promoted,  but  defeated.  Something  may  be 
said  for  it  under  ordinary  circumstances.  Nothing  can 
be  said  for  it  under  martial  law — a  law  only  to  be  re- 
sorted to  in  circumstances  in  which  the  public  safety  is 
the  object  to  be  regarded,  and  a  law  which  is  not  to  be 


220  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

administered  by  men  learned  in  the  law.  In  his  note  he 
expresses  a  hope  that  if  martial  law  is  recognized  and 
established  by  Parliament,  the  exercise  of  it  will  be  placed 
under  due  limitations  and  fenced  round  by  the  safeguards 
provided  in  the  act  of  1833  (3  and  4  Wm.  IV.  c.  4),  for  Ire- 
land. The  provisions  of  law  respecting  courts-martial  in 
the  act  of  1833  would  probably  have  made  it  impractica- 
ble to  hold  courts-martial  at  all  in  St.  Thomas-in-the-East 
in  October,  1865." 

The  views  of  the  lord  chief  justice  as  to  legislation 
were  not  adopted  by  the  government.  A  commission 
was  appointed  to  frame  regulations  for  tlie  guidance  of 
those  on  Avhom  the  duty  might  hereafter  devolve  of  jiro- 
claiming  martial  law  and  giving  effect  to  it.  It  was 
right,  I  think,  that  this  should  be  done.  All  I  contend 
for  is,  that  the  stumbling-block  of  Imo  should  not  be  in- 
truded upon  the  minds  of  men  at  the  moment  when  they 
are  suddenly  charged  with  tlie  rescue  of  a  community 
from  imminent  destruction.  Admonitions  and  even  regu- 
lations, so  they  be  of  a  general  and  flexible  nature,  may 
be  usefully  included  in  the  course  of  instruction  by  which 
men  are  prepared  for  the  various  duties  and  emergencies 
of  military  life;  and  military  nien  and  governors  of  colo- 
nies may  be  enjoined  not  to  forget  them  in  any  operations 
to  be  adopted  under  martial  law,  and  to  observe  them  so 
far  forth  as  they  may  be  found  compatible  with  the  para- 
mount objects  which  can  alone  justify  its  existence;  but 
there  is  a  supreme  rule  of  conduct  to  be  derived  fi'om  the 
conscience,  the  judgment,  and  the  humanity  of  persons  so 
employed,  which,  imperfect  as  may  be  the  guidance  and 
control  it  exercises,  is  the  only  rule  which  can  be  of  any 
essential  avail  to  the  interests  of  humanity.  Obedience 
absolutely  imposed  to  preconceived  dictations  of  author- 
ity or  law,  unless  human  nature  should  happily  renounce 


Martial  Law.  231 

it  as  out  of  place  when  the  emergency  should  arise,  might 
involve  consequences  far  more  revolting  to  humanity  than 
any  which  it  was  designed  to  prevent. 

In  this  country  public  opinion,  and  the  anticipation  of 
its  verdicts,  exercises,  on  such  occasions  as  those  in  ques- 
tion, a  powerfully  controlling  influence,  and  even  this  con- 
trol may  chance  to  be  excessive.  To  a  certain  extent, 
and  perhaps  in  the  majority  of  cases,  English  ofiicers 
Avould  have  the  courage  to  do  what  they  might  think 
right  without  more  regard  than  enough  to  laws  and  regu- 
lations, or  even  to  the  menace  which  an  uncertain  public 
opinion  holds  over  them.  But  it  is  quite  as  important 
that  self-governed  and  humane  men  should  not  be  need- 
lessly intimidated  as  that  those  Avho  may  be  wanting  in 
humanity  and  self-government  should  be  effectively  con- 
trolled. 

I  have  made  room  for  a  chapter  on  this  revolt  in  Ja- 
maica rather  as  an  example  from  which  to  generalize  in 
the  consideration  of  some  questions  of  permanent  impor- 
tance than  with  a  view  to  estimate  the  merits  or  demerits 
of  this  or  that  person  or  proceeding.  But  it  may  be  re- 
garded also  as  curiously  illustrative  of  the  ways  and  ten- 
dencies of  a  people  in  forming,  or  seizing,  or  snatching 
their  opinions. 

Their  instinct  is  to  individualize  and  concentrate. 
They  fasten,  if  they  can,  upon  one  person  and  one  act. 
In  this  case  the  person  was  Governor  Eyre,  and  the  act 
was  the  execution  of  Gordon.  In  a  just  judgment,  if  I 
am  capable  of  forming  one,  there  was  no  act  of  the  au- 
thorities in  Jamaica  in  1SG5  which  was  more  distinctly 
deserving  of  approval.  The  transference  under  arrest 
from  a  place  beyond  the  area  of  martial  law  to  a  place 
within  it,  there  to  be  tried,  and,  if  found  guilty,  executed, 
was  of  questionable  legality.     The  evidence  produced  at 


223  AutoViograjphy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

the  trial  was,  in  the  opinion  of  the  commissioners  of  in- 
quiry, wholly  insufficient  to  establish  the  charge  preferred. 
It  Avas  evidence  subsequently  obtained  which  jiroved,  if 
not  all  of  Avhich  he  was  convicted,  quite  enough  to  have 
justified  his  sentence,  even  in  the  estimation  of  those 
who  impugned  it,  had  it  been  forthcoming  at  the  time. 
But  the  governor,  the  brigadier-general,  the  commander 
of  the  forces,  and  the  community  generally  had  reason  to 
be  as  well  assured  of  Gordon's  guilt  as  many  a  jury  is 
when,  in  a  just  exercise  of  its  judgment,  it  convicts  a  man 
of  a  capital  offence  on  circumstantial  evidence.  They  knew 
also  that  his  death  would  strike  terror  into  the  disaffected 
population  and  their  leaders  throughout  the  island.  I  do 
not  ask,  as  I  have  said  before,  what  was  lawful  or  unlaw- 
ful, but  what  lawlessness  was  justifiable  and  right;  and  I 
am  satisfied  in  my  own  mind  that  the  execution  of  Gor- 
don was  just  in  itself  and  needful  for  the  purpose  of  avert- 
ing great  dangers. 

There  is  another  question  which  does  admit  of  a  doubt. 
I  think  that,  if  the  authorities  had  been  able  to  estimate 
the  full  force  of  the  death-blow  dealt  by  that  one  execu- 
tion to  the  hearts  of  the  disaffected  throughout  the  island, 
many  lives  of  the  more  ignorant,  and  therefore  less  guilty, 
might  have  been  spared. 

The  insurrection  was  of  infinite  service  to  the  colony. 
The  assembly  was  frightened  out  of  its  life.  The  gov- 
ernor's report  of  his  negotiations  for  constitutional 
changes  in  favor  of  the  crown  was  received  the  day  be- 
fore the  return  packet  was  to  sail.  There  was  no  time  to 
consult  the  cabinet,  but  I  was  authorized  to  send  privately 
to  the  governor  the  draft  of  such  a  despatch  as  he  was 
told  he  would  probably  receive  by  the  ensuing  packet  in 
an  authentic  form.  lie  learned  from  this  draft  that  the 
crown  Avould  not  accept  the  responsibility  of  legislative 


Jamaica  Assemhly  Perishes.  233 

functions  unless  accompanied  by  the  crown's  paramount 
power  in  the  legislative  body.  It  reached  him  just  in 
time  to  take  effect  upon  the  negotiations  before  the  as- 
sembly recovered  from  its  panic:  and  that  body,  evicted 
for  the  moment  of  the  rampant  pride  of  power,  so  pre- 
posterously described  by  Sir  Robert  Peel,  twenty  -  six 
years  before,  as  "a  high  and  haughty  spirit  of  liberty," 
crept  into  a  corner  and  died  by  its  own  hand. 


CiiArxER  XX. 

ORDER  OF  ST.  MICHAEL  AND  ST.  GEORGE.— LIFE  FEERAGES.— 
"CRIME  CONSIDERED."— A  FENAL  CODE. 

Anno  Dom.  18G9.     Anno  ^t.  G9. 

The  Duke  of  Buckingham,  shortly  before  tlie  change 
of  government  in  1869,  had  taken  stejjs  for  extending  to 
the  colonial  service  generally  the  eligibility  to  the  order 
of  St.  Michael  and  St.  George,  to  which  only  public  ser- 
vants whose  service  was  connected  with  Malta  and  the 
Ionian  Islands  had  been  theretofore  eligible.  It  devolved 
upon  his  successor,  Lord  Granville,  to  make  the  first  ap- 
pointments to  the  order,  and  he  wrote  to  me  on  the  sub- 
ject (3d  May,  1869):  "  I  do  not  know  whether  your  opin- 
ion was  in  favor  of  the  extension  of  the  St.  Michael  and 
St.  George,  or  what  Lyttelton  calls  the  Angelic  and  Arch- 
angelic  Order.  I  have  some  doubts  of  its  expediency,  but, 
it  being  an  accomplished  fact,  I  wish,  as  I  explained  at  a 
dinner  of  the  colonial  society,  to  give  it  as  much  distinc- 
tion as  possible,  by  persuading  those  who  I  think  would 
give  a  stamp  to  its  value  to  accept  it.  I  need  not  enter 
into  details  why  you  particularly  belong  to  this  category. 
I  have  obtained  the  queen's  permission  to  offer  you  the 
Knight  Commandership." 

I  answered  (4th  May) :  "  I  should  like  a  day  or  two  to 
consider  what  certainly  never  came  into  my  head  before; 
but  if  I  am  not  to  accept,  it  would  certainly  not  be  from 
any  want  of  respect  for  the  order  or  for  titular  distinc- 
tions generally;  and  anything  I  might  receive  from  your 


Order  of  St.  Michael  and  St.  George.  225 

hands  would  be  very  acceptable,  if  it  were  on  that  account 
only." 

The  question  I  wished  to  consider  was  whether  my  ac- 
ceptance of  this  distinction  would  interfere  with  the  offer 
of  another.  For  some  years  past  there  had  been  a  ques- 
tion publicly  discussed  whether  the  House  of  Lords  would 
not  be  the  better  for  an  admixture  of  peers  whose  patents 
should  be  limited  to  the  one  life.  In  the  year  1850  the 
queen  was  advised  to  confer  a  peerage  for  life  only  on  an 
eminent  retired  judge,  by  the  title  of  Lord  Wensleydale. 
The  opposition  took  the  opportunity  thus  afforded  them 
of  showing  their  power  in  the  House  of  Lords.  Lord 
Lyndhurst  made  a  long  speech,  the  object  of  which  was 
to  prove  that  the  crown,  though  competent  to  confer 
titles  of  nobility  for  life,  was  not  competent  to  confer, 
along  with  a  title  of  nobility  so  limited,  a  title  to  a  seat 
in  the  House  of  Peers  with  a  corresponding  limitation. 
The  question  was  much  debated,  and  in  the  issue  a  ma- 
jority of  the  peers  resolved  that  Lord  AVensleydale  was 
not  entitled  to  a  seat.  Sir  Francis  Doyle,  who  had  been 
staying  with  Lord  "Wensleydale  at  the  time,  came  to  see 
us  at  Sheen  a  day  or  two  after,  and  I  asked  him  what 
Lord  Wensleydale's  position  would  be  with  a  seat  in  the 
House  granted  by  the  crown,  and  the  crown's  prerogative 
disputed  by  the  House.  His  answer  Avas  one  which  any 
one  who  knew  Frank  Doyle  would  recognize  as  all  his 
own:  "Well,  his  position  will  be  very  much  that  of  the 
fat  lady  at  the  crowded  concert.  The  gentleman  next  her 
said,  *  I  am  afraid,  ma'am,  you  have  nothing  to  sit  upon.' 
And  she  replied,  'No,  it  is  not  that;  but  I  have  nowhere 
to  put  it.' " 

The  fate  of  the  fat  lad\'  was  not  ultimately  that  of 
Lord  Wensleydale.  Any  peerage  conferred  upon  him 
would  be  virtually  a  life  peerage,  for  he  had  no  son  to 
IL— 10* 


22G  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

succeed  to  it.  The  limitation  in  his  patent  had  been  in- 
troduced in  order  to  launch  the  iirinciple  and  feel  the 
way,  with  a  view  to  establish  life  peerages  as  a  compo- 
nent part  of  the  House  of  Lords,  The  result  was  to  show 
that  the  general  feeling  Avas  rather  favorable  to  it  than 
adverse.  In  1869  Lord  Russell,  trusting  to  the  feeling 
which  had  been  thus  elicited,  was  encouraged  (in  concert 
with  the  government,  I  believe,  though  no  longer  a  mem- 
ber of  it),  to  bring  in  a  bill  to  enable  the  crown  to  create 
a  limited  number  of  life  peerages,  and  he  had  given  me 
some  intimations  of  a  wish  to  know  whether  I  would  like 
a  life  peerage. 

The  life  peerages  to  be  filled  on  the  passing  of  the  bill 
would  not  be,  technically  at  least,  at  his  disposal:  he  was 
not  in  office,  Mr.  Gladstone  being  first  minister;  and  he 
had  not  asked  the  question  directly  and  distinctly;  but  I 
understood  him,  and  I  took  the  opportunity  of  a  speech  of 
Lord  Derby's  to  give  him  an  implied  answer  (28th  April, 
1869): 

"  I  see  that  Lord  Derby  professed  his  belief  that  a  life 
peerage  would  not  be  attractive  to  the  great  majority  of 
men  really  eminent  in  science  and  literature.*  I  entirely 
disagree  from  him,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  men  of  emi- 
nence in  these  kinds  would  be  very  glad  of  a  life  peerage; 
and  this,  not  only  because  they  might  think  they  could  be 
of  some  service  in  the  Iloust  of  Lords,  but  also  for  the 
honor  and  glory  of  it.  I  never  heard  that  they  had  re- 
nounced the  world  and  all  its  vanities,  and  I  am  sure  they 
would  think  a  life  peerage  a  very  desirable  distinction." 

Lord  Russell  thought  that  my  accei)tance  of  the  order 

*  By  this  profession  Lord  Derby  could  oppose  the  measure  vvitliout  ap- 
pearing to  unden-alue  literature  and  science,  but  he  can  scarcely  have 
really  held  the  belief  he  professed. 


Life  Peerage.  227 

would  not  affect  my  position  as  to  the  peerage;  his  ad- 
vice was  to  accept,  and  I  followed  it. 

Before  the  life  -  peerage  bill  reached  the  third  reading, 
which  was  towards  the  end  of  the  session,  a  change  had 
come  over  political  parties,  some  leading  conservative 
peers  withdrew  their  support,  and  the  bill  did  not  pass. 

My  sentiments  were  expressed  in  a  letter  to  James 
Spedding  (26th  May,  1869)  :  "Touching  my  coming  title, 
there  is  certainly  no  need  for  condolence.  I  hold  that  I 
am  to  be  congratulated,  not  by  reason  of  the  values  you 
mention  only,  but  of  other  values  also.  Why  do  I  wear 
broadcloth,  and  not  linsey-woolsey?  Not  because  broad- 
cloth indicates  any  particular  merit  on  my  part,  or  any 
use  that  I  may  be  of  in  my  day  and  generation,  but  be- 
cause I  consider  I  make  a  better  appearance  in  broad- 
cloth. There  are  some  persons,  perhaps,  to  whom  the  dif- 
ference would  seem  unimportant.  Kings  and  queens, 
looking  down  from  their  empyrean,  would  hardly  notice 
it.  But  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  kings  and  queens.  It 
is  in  other  eyes  than  theirs  that  I  am 

'  With  practised  step  to  prance 
And  high-curvetting  slow  advance;' 

and,  indeed,  I  think  my  strongest  sympathies  are  with 
servants,  and  generally  with  persons  of  a  class  inferior  to 
my  own.  The  title  of  A.  P.  V.  A.  (by  which  I  suppose 
you  mean.  Author  of  '  Philip  Van  Artevelde ')  is  of  no 
use  to  me  with  these  classes ;  and,  even  if  it  were,  I 
should  not  be  disposed  to  take  the  advice  proffered  to 
George  Seacoal,  and  '  let  my  Avriting  and  reading  appear 
when  there  is  no  need  of  such  vanity.'  But  the  other 
title  may  find  favor  in  the  eyes  of  persons  of  these  classes. 
Nor  do  I  think  the  worse  of  them  on  that  account,  nor 
the  worse  of  any  persons  for  having  their  minds  and  im- 
aginations affected  by  orders  and  degrees  and  titular  dis- 


228  Aidobiography  of  Jlenry  Taylor. 

tinctions.  There  is  no  reason  why  their  minds  should  be 
afTecled  in  that  way  if  it  does  not  come  to  them  natu- 
rally ;  and  there  is  no  reason  why  they  should  not  if  it 
does.  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  a  better  distribution 
of  human  respect  and  admiration  is  (.fleeted  by  different 
classes  and  individuals  having  different  susceptibilities. 
I  am  myself  rather  deficient  in  respect  and  admiration  for 
intellectual  superiority  taken  apart;  but  I  doubt  whether 
it  would  be  well  that  everybody  should  have  as  little  re- 
spect for  it  as  I  have.  So  of  superiority  in  courage.  I 
would  leave  the  admiration  of  that  chiefly  to  the  women; 
but  it  is  highly  expedient  that  it  should  have  a  sufficient 
tribute  of  admiration  from  one  quarter  or  another.  Far 
higher  are  the  claims  of  moral  and  religious  superiorities; 
yet  if  the  reverence  even  for  these  were  to  be  for  these 
exclusively,  and  for  these  from  all  quarters  and  on  all 
sides,  I  doubt  whether  the  saints  would  be  the  more 
saintly  for  it,  and  I  am  disposed  to  think  it  would  do 
them  more  harm  than  good.  At  all  events,  intellect, 
courage,  wealth,  etc.,  have  each  of  them  a  tendency  to 
tyrannize;  and,  perhaps,  if  either  or  all  were  pampered  by 
admiration,  they  would  not  avail  to  check  the  tendency 
of  each  to  become  tyrannical  by  the  mere  antagonistic 
action  of  each  upon  each,  iinassisted  by  intermediaries ; 
and  there  may  be  no  small  assistance  rendered  in  temper- 
ing their  respective  arrogancies  by  the  respect,  which 
seems  more  or  less  natural  in  man,  for  birth,  hereditary 
rank,  and  for  orders  and  degrees. 

*  Take  but  degree  away,  untune  that  string, 
And  liark  !  wliat  discord  fu'.Iows  !  each  tiling  meets 
In  mere  oppugnancy.  .  .  .' 

I  do  not  go  all  lengths  with  Ulysses,  and  say, 

'  Frights,  clianges,  horrors 
Divert  and  crack,  rend  and  deracinate, 


Use  of  Titular  Distinctions.  239 

The  unity  and  married  calm  of  states 
Quite  from  their  fixure,' 

but  I  think  that  probably  intellectual  and  other  autocrats, 
Senator  Sumners  and  General  Butlers,  would  abound, 

"  Perhaps,  however,  these  views  had  not  much  to  do 
with  my  acceptance  of  the  order  of  St.  Michael  and  St. 
George.  I  was  asked  to  accept  it  on  a  ground  which  was 
merely  complimentary  and  unreal,  that  my  acceptance 
would  be  of  advantage  to  the  order.  I  regarded  it,  of 
course,  as  what  it  was,  the  offer  of  a  favor;  and  when  a 
favor  is  offered  to  one  by  a  person  whom  one  likes  and 
respects,  it  seems  to  me  to  be  the  right  and  natural  thing 
to  take  it  and  be  thankful." 

The  broadcloth  argument  would  have  been  better  ex- 
pressed in  King  Lear's  language  than  in  my  own : 
"  O  reason  not  the  need  :  our  basest  beggars 
Are  in  the  poorest  thing  superfluous; 
Allow  not  nature  more  than  nature  needs, 
Man's  life  is  cheap  as  beast's ;  thou  art  a  lady ; 
If  only  to  go  warm  were  gorgeous, 
Wh}',  nature  needs  not  what  tiiou  gorgeous  wear'st, 
Which  scarcely  keeps  thee  warm." 

Aubrey  de  Vere  had  a  few  words  to  say  upon  the  oc- 
casion (2d  June,  1869) :  "  It  is,  of  course,  a  tribute  to 
your  services  in  the  colonial  office;  and  I  am  glad  that 
there  should  thus  be  a  permanent  memorial  of  the  circum- 
stance that  you,  a  poet,  united  the  life  active  Avith  the  life 
contemplative;  this,  of  course,  casting  no  disparagement 
upon  us  who  belong  to  the  order,  also  respectable,  of  poets 
vagabond  here  upon  earth.  Titles  for  literature  only  I  do 
not  like.  A  person  might  as  well  be  given  a  title  for  his 
virtues.  .  .  .  The  title  honorably  commemorates  what  lias 
been  so  important  a  part  of  your  life,  and  one  indirectly 
conducive  to  your  poetry  by  its  effects  in  consolidating 
and  disciplining  the  mind." 


230  Autohiorjraphy  of  Henry  Tmjlor. 

I  gave  an  account  of  my  investiture  in  a  letter  dated 
Bournemouth,  4th  July  :..."!  was  summoned  to  Lon- 
don on  official  business,  and  went  as  soon  as  Alice  was 
well  enough  for  me  to  leave  her;  and  when  my  business 
was  over  and  I  was  about  to  return,  I  got  a  summons  to 
attend  the  queen  at  Windsor,  the  next  day,  for  an  inves- 
titure of  St.  Michael  and  St.  George,  and  I  had  not  a  rag 
of  court  dress.  A  thousand  tailors  were  set  to  work,  how- 
ever, and,  in  exactly  twenty -four  hours,  I  found  myself 
wanting  nothing  except  a  clean  shirt  and  a  white  cravat. 
While  I  was  dressing  in  the  tailor's  shop,  skirmishers 
Avere  thrown  out,  and  a  shirt  was  seized  and  secured; 
my  pocket  -  handkerchief  was  converted  into  a  cravat, 
and  I  reached  the  train  for  Windsor  just  in  time.  The 
queen  smote  me  with  a  sword  on  the  right  shoulder  and 
on  the  left,  and  I  rose  Sir  Henry,  kissed  her  hand,  and, 
smitten  also  with  a  smile,  retreated;  and,  though  not  'ex- 
pert in  stepping  backwards,'  got  off  without  any  serious 
accident." 

The  conclusion  of  the  letter  is  not  to  the  purpose;  but 
it  reminds  me  of  a  bright  hour  or  two,  and  I  feel  disposed 
to  go  on :  "  One  of  the  pleasantcst  of  the  few  evenings  I 
passed  in  London  was  a  very  quiet  evening  at  Lady  Mont- 
eagle's — no  one  there  but  herself  and  F ,  and  for  half 

an  hour  Monteaglc  " — grandson  of  the  first  Lord  Mont- 
eagle — "  just  returned  from  abroad — bearing  witness  to 
the  merits  of  the  mountain  air  and  redolent  of  the  rose 
with  which  he  had  been  living.     He  went  his  way,  and 

then  was  left  the  beautiful  F ,  not  dull  or  indifferent 

because  we  were  old;  but  rather  bright  as  a  star  between 
two  clouds.  I  thought  I  should  like  to  know  her  better; 
but  I  suppose  it  is  true  that  in  the  case  of  most  people 
who  are  pleasant  and  prepossessing,  the  best  knowledge 
in  one  sense,  i.  e.,  the  knowledge  which  is  most  acceptable 


Cei'emonial  at  Windsor  Castle.  231 

and  delightful,  is  that  which  one  has  before  one  knows 
their  faults." 

Of  course  I  reported  my  proceedings  to  Alice  (8th  July, 
1869) :  "At  the  luncheon  [at  Windsor  Castle]  I  met  sev- 
eral people  whom  I  liked  to  meet — some  whom  I  had  not 
met  for  many  years  and  some  whom  I  see  often.  And  I 
like  to  see  a  croAvd,  It  was  a  gay  crowd  in  colors  and 
dresses  of  divers  sorts,  for  there  were  three  orders  to  be 
dealt  with ;  and  it  would  have  been  very  gay  but  that  we 
were  all  elderly  or  old,  and  there  were  no  women  except 
in  the  inner  room,  where  the  queen  was  with  some  pretty 
princess,  I  do  not  know  whom.  I  performed  my  part  in 
the  ceremonial  rather  awkwardly;  and  if  I  like  ceremo- 
nials, as  you  suppose  (which  I  was  not  aware  of),  it  is  not 
certainly  having  a  part  to  perform  in  them  that  I  like. 
Even  when  I  dine  out  and  have  to  take  some  one  down 
to  dinner  I  never  know  what  I  am  about;  and  in  this  case 
I  was  awkwardly  slow  to  kiss  the  hand,  not  being  aware 
when  the  time  had  come  and  the  liand  was  ready.  I  sup- 
pose, however,  the  queen  is  used  to  that  sort  of  awkward- 
ness, and  she  only  smiled  a  pleasant  smile." 

I  was  answered  according  to  my  deserts  :  "  You  are 
the  best  of  good  husbands  for  writing  so  much  and  so 
often  (except  that  I  had  rather  you  would  not  write  when 
you  should  be  in  bed),  and  you  are  the  stupidest  of  poet- 
philosopher-statesmen  to  have  put  off  your  arrangements 
about  clothing  to  the  eleventh  hour,  and  so  be  in  doubt 
and  difficulty  past  the  twelfth,  and  have  to  rush  into  the 
presence  of  majesty  probably  as  ungartered  as  Malvolio." 

On  the  day  after  my  sixty-ninth  birthday,  19th  Octo- 
ber, 1869,  in  answer  to  a  letter  from  James  Marshall,  I 
wrote  :  "As  to  my  own  experience  of 

'The  waste  and  injuries  of  time  and  tide,' 
all  I  have  to  complain  of  is  that  I  have  not,  like  Aubrey 


asa  A^itohiograjpliy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

de  Verc, '  two  good  raptures  a  week.'  I  am  in  the  habit 
of  doing  quite  as  much  official  work  as  I  used  to  do  in 
my  youth  and  middle  age,  at  least  I  think  so;  and  I  think, 
too,  that  I  do  it  quite  as  well,  and,  moreover,  quite  as 
quickly — I  should  say,  perhaps,  more  quickly.  What  I 
have  lost  is  the  state,  intermittent,  of  course,  but  not  in- 
frequent, indeed,  almost  daily  in  my  youth  and  middle 
age,  of  a  sort  of  intellectual  and  imaginative  luxuriousness, 
sometimes  active,  sometimes  abandoned  to  itself,  some- 
times attended  by 

'Ilybleau  inuvmiirs  of  poetic  tliouglit 
Industrious  in  its  joy,' 

sometimes  seeming  too  delightful  to  be  put  to  any  pur- 
poses whatever,  poetical  or  prosaic.  That  is  gone,  and 
hardly  a  hint  of  it  returns." 

Of  the  year  1869  I  have  nothing  more  to  say,  except 
that  I  published  in  that  year  a  letter  to  Mr.  Gladstone  en- 
titled "  Crime  Considered,"  the  object  of  which  was  to 
propose  certain  amendments  of  the  criminal  law,  some  of 
them  founded  upon  principles  of  a  more  or  less  innovat- 
ing character.  I  was  anxious  to  obtain  for  them,  from 
the  government,  a  measure  of  attention  which  I  might 
have  known  the  government  could  not  afford  to  bestow. 
From  eminent  men  of  all  other  kinds  and  classes  I  met 
with  much  sympathy  and  concurrence  ;  and  I  adverted 
to  these  attentions  and  inattentions  in  a  letter  to  James 
Spedding :  "  I  have  had  since  the  24th  December  sixty- 
four  letters  about  crime.  I  have  answered  about  half  of 
them.  I  fell  in  with  Gladstone  last  week  at  Pembroke 
Lodge,  and  he  had  to  confess,  with  shame  and  contrition, 
that  he  had  not  read  my  pamphlet.  Sluggard  !  what  can 
he  have  been  about  ?  Idling  away  his  time  with  the  Scar- 
let Woman,  I  suppose,  and  coaxing  Ireland." 

The  Scarlet  Woman  did  not  encourage  his  attentions  or 


A  Penal  Code.  233 

deserve  his  care;  and,  as  all  the  world  knows,  the  relations 
between  him  and  her  were  soon  to  assume  a  different  as- 
pect. I  told  Mr.  Gladstone  that  the  letter,  though  ad- 
dressed to  him,  was  for  the  consideration  of  the  home  sec- 
retary rather  than  the  prime  minister.  But,  as  I  have  said, 
I  could  not  reasonably  expect  that  my  projects  in  their 
totality  would  be  considered  by  either.  No  government 
of  this  country  can  hope  to  succeed  in  carrying  through 
Parliament  a  large  and  innovating  measure  on  which 
every  lawyer  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and  many  an- 
other member,  would  have  an  opinion  of  his  own,  and  seize 
the  opportunity  of  making  a  motion  and  speaking  a  speech, 
and  with  nothing  to  recommend  it  but  the  possibility  that 
it  might  promote  the  well-being  of  mankind.  Bit-by-bit 
legislation  is  all  that  is  practicable  in  this  country  on  sub- 
jects in  which  neither  the  country  nor  any  large  party  in 
it  take  an  interest;  and  even  the  smallest  bits  will  not  al- 
ways be  swallowed  if  it  be  possible  to  toss  them  to  the 
dogs.  I  did  not  abandon  my  projects,  but  I  turned  to  an- 
other field  of  action. 

The  field  to  which  I  betook  myself  was  colonial — com- 
prising those  of  the  colonies  in  which  the  legislative  au- 
thority of  the  crown  is  paramount.  I  could  not  myself 
make  the  slightest  pretensions  to  the  learning  and  skill 
and  industry  required  for  the  construction  of  a  penal 
code;  but  a  man  was  found,  Mr.  Robert  S.  Wright,  of 
unrivalled  abilities  in  that  kind;  and  after  three  years  of 
unremitting  labor  a  code  was  produced.  For  ten  months 
it  was  under  revision  by  Sir  FitzJames  Stephen,  whose 
work  upon  criminal  law  is,  I  believe,  of  high  authority; 
conferences  and  discussions  followed,  leading  to  a  concur- 
rence on  almost  all  the  important  points  of  difference;  and 
in  October,  18V5,  the  draft  code  was  placed  in' the  hands 
of  the  seci-etary  of  state;  whence  I  trust  it  will  issue,  in 


234  Autdbioijruplnj  of  Henry  Taylor. 

due  season,  an  approved  work  of  mucli  moment  and  magni 
tude  in  the  history  of  criminal  jurisprudence.* 

*  Dec.  1884. — What  lias  become  of  it  I  have  never  heard.  It  was  sent 
out  to  all  the  crown  colonies,  and  tlie  authorities  of  Jamaica,  at  least,  if 
not  of  the  others,  were  ready  and  desirous  to  enact  it,  when  a  postpone- 
ment was  directed  by  the  home  government,  I  believe  in  order  that  Sir 
FitzJamcs  Stephen's  criminal  code  for  Enj^land  iniglit  take  precedence, 
and  any  results  of  the  discussion  of  that  code  niiglit  be  available  for  the 
improvement  of  the  otlier.  How  many  years  may  pass  before  the  British 
legislature  can  be  got  to  adopt  such  a  measure  as  a  criminal  code  for 
England  no  one  can  tell,  and  in  the  meantime  the  benefits  which  the 
crown  colonies  might  derive  from  theirs  are  thrown  away.  Such  was  the 
fate  for  no  less  than  twenty-three  years  of  the  Indian  code  constructed  by 
Lord  Macaulay  and  his  brother  commissioners,  during  which  years  more 
than  two  iiundred  millions  of  our  Indian  subjects  were  deprived  of  the  in- 
estimable benefits  conferred  upon  them  when  it  was  enacted  in  1860. 


Chapter  XXI. 

SIR  FREDERIC  ROGERS  RETIRES.— HE  ACCEPTS  A  PEERAGE.— 
USES  OF  A  PEER.— I  RETIRE. 

Anno  Dom.  1871-72.     Anno  JEt.  71-72. 

Sir  Frederic  Rogers  quitted  the  colonial  office  in 
1871;  and  the  letters  exchanged  between  us  on  the  occa- 
sion present  rather  an  odd  jumble  of  venison  and  valedic- 
tion. 

"I  write,"  he  began  (August  7th,  1871),  "to  say  that  in 
the  course  of  a  few  days  [he  was  just  starting  for  the  Con- 
tinent] a  fawn  will  be  despatched  for  Bournemouth.  We 
find  them  good  eating,  roast  or  stewed.  I  am  pleased  and 
sorry  to  hear  you  miss  me.  Leaving  you  behind  was 
the  thing  which  I  felt  at  the  colonial  office.  The  fact  is 
that  any  under  secretary  must  be,  and  I  was,  in  a  false 
position  with  you;  and  if  the  relation  is  not  delightful,  as 
it  was  to  me,  it  runs  the  risk  of  being  unendurable.  I 
sometimes  used  to  wonder  how  you  tolerated  me.  But  it 
was  a  great  pleasure,  and  in  some  degree  gratifying  to  my 
own  vanity,  to  feel  how  absolutely  without  difficulty  our 
relations  were.  Pleasures  there  must  have  been;  but  that 
there  should  have  been  no  hitches,  or  suspicions  or  appre- 
hensions or  approximations  of  hitches,  is  a  thing  for  which 
I  was  at  first  very  grateful  to  you;  and  should  have  re- 
mained so  had  not  our  terms  reached  a  point  at  Avhich 
gratitude  is  left  behind." 

I  have  remarked  in  Chapter  XIV.,  vol.  1,  that  "  accord- 
ing to  my  observation  of  life,  subordination  comes  more 


23G  Alt tob lograjyh y  of  lien ry  Taylor. 

easily  to  men — at  least,  to  gentlemen — than  the  exercise 
of  authority  does."  Thus  the  difficulty  in  our  official  re- 
lations, if  any,  was  on  his  side:  but  it  was  a  difficulty  Avhich 
he  was  fitted  by  nature  to  confront;  for  while  his  personal 
feelings  were  all  that  his  letter  expresses,  there  was  a 
moral  strength  in  him  which  made  it  certain  that  on  any 
public  question  on  which  our  opinions  were  opposed  he 
would  exercise  the  authority  it  was  his  duty  to  exercise 
in  giving  effect  to  his  own.  As  for  me,  though,  of  course, 
on  this  question  or  that,  I  may  liave  differed  from  him  in 
opinion,!  had  a  prevailing  sense  of  his  superiority  in  point 
of  judgment  which  made  acquiescence  on  particular  occa- 
sions a  matter  of  easy  amenability. 

First  and  foremost  in  my  reply  was  the  fawn:  "'Let 
her  come  a'  God's  name,  we  are  not  afraid  of  her,'  as 
the  lord  mayor  said  of  the  hare  when  he  was  out  hunting. 
So  said  Cowper  in  answering  an  announcement  that  he 
was  to  expect  the  arrival  of  a  bustard,  and  so  say  I  of  the 
fawn.  Yes,  indeed — you  and  I  did  dwell  together  in 
unity,  dealing  with  men  and  aifairs  of  divers  kinds  and 
tempers,  and  the  unity  was  very  pleasant  and  very  precious; 
and  if  the  ointment  on  Aaron's  beard  that  ran  down  to  the 
skirts  of  his  clothing  was  equally  precious,  I  should  like  to 
have  a  pot  of  it  to  take  with  me  on  my  way.  At  the  same 
time  I  have  nothing  to  complain  of:  and  if  there  is  any 
one  who  has  reason  to  complain,  it  is  the  man  or  men  who 
have  to  wait  for  my  vacancy  till  I  feel  sufficiently  super- 
fluous to  make  way  for  them." 

A  question  was  raised  in  the  office  about  presenting  Sir 
Frederic  with  "  a  testimonial,"  or  a  dinner  to  serve  as  one, 
and  my  opinion  was  asked.  What  had  been  my  answer 
I  made  known  to  him;  he  thanked  me  much  for  it,  and  I 
replied  (January  5th,  1871):  "I  had  no  sort  of  doubt  as 
to  what  your  sentiments  would  be;  though,  in  intimating 


Bogey's  Accepts  a  Peerage.  237 

my  opinion,  I  modestly  premised  that  it  was  the  opinion 
of  a  man  who  lived  altogether  out  of  the  world  of  testi- 
monials and  dinners,  and  knew  nothing  of  them  bnt  what 
he  saw  in  the  newspapers.  As  to  testimonials,  I  am  pre- 
pared to  testify  against  them  with  my  last  breath;  and  as 
to  testimonial  dinners,  I  had  rather  dine  every  day  of  my 
life  on  the  dinner  of  the  Irish  member  whom  O'Connell 
met  in  Piccadillj'.  Do  you  remember  ?  O'Connell  asked 
him  to  dine,  mentioning  that  the  dinner  he  had  to  offer 
was  nothing  but  beef  and  potatoes.  *  And  sure,'  said  his 
friend,  '  wasn't  I  going  to  ask  you  to  dine  with  one,  if  you 
hadn't  spoken  first;  and  just  to  the  same  dannav  hating  the 
beefP  Assuredly  O'Connell's  dinner,  or  even  his  friend's, 
would  be  welcome  to  me  in  comparison  with  a  public  din- 
ner; and  more  especially  one  at  which  I  was  to  stand  by 
and  hear  you  made  a  victim  to  panegyrics." 

Sir  Frederic's  successor^  Mr.  Herbert,  said  to  me,  I  re- 
member, when  the  question  was  discussed  between  us,  that 
a  peerage  would  be  the  proper  testimonial;  and  before  the 
year  was  out,  the  same  notion  occurring  to  Mr.  Gladstone, 
a  peerage  was  offered  and  accepted. 

He  was  in  Switzerland  at  the  time,  whither  was  sent 
what  I  had  to  say  (12th  October,  1871):  "I  have  just 
learned  from  Meade  that  you  accept  the  peerage,  and  that 
there  is  no  longer  any  secret  about  it.  My  first  intelli- 
gence was  from  the  announcement  in  the  newspapers.  It  ap- 
peared afterwards  that  the  announcement  was  unauthorized 
by  you,  and  that  there  were  some  difficulties  in  the  way. 
I  suppose  they  arose  out  of  the  relations  of  a  peerage  with 
income  and  expenditure,  etc.,  and  a  residence  in  London 
during  the  session  of  Parliament.  On  such  questions  as 
what  is  called  si(pportlng  a  peerage  I  have  a  view  of  my 
own.  I  have  always  thought  that,  when  necessary,  rank 
should  stand  in  the  place  of  keeping  up  appearances,  rather 


238  Autdbiograjplnj  of  Henry  Taylor. 

than  involve  cost  on  account  of  tbeni.     You  should  bear 
in  mind  that — 

'  King  Stephen  was  a  wortliy  peer, 
His  breeches  cost  him  half  a  crown,' 
and  whether  your  breeches  cost  you  much  or  little,  you 
are  assuredly  as  worthy  of  a  peerage  as  any  man  who  has 
taken  his  seat  in  that  House  since  the  time  of  King  Ste- 
phen." 

And  then  he  asked  me  a  question;  and  I  answered  it 
(October  22d,  1871):  "You  ask  for  my  views,  if  I  have 
any,  of  the  uses  of  a  peer.  I  do  not  place  as  low  among 
them  as  some  philosophers  would  his  passive  quality  of  a*f- 
fecting  the  imaginations  of  men  in  the  way  in  which  man's 
imagination  is,  and  always  will  be,  affected  by  orders  and 
degrees.  A  peer  is  one  of  an  order  and  degree  Avhich, 
next  to  the  order  and  degree  of  royalty,  has  a  conserva- 
tive operation  upon  the  minds  of  men.  "What  that  opera- 
tion amounts  to  may  be  partly  estimated  by  the  operation 
of  the  order  and  degree  next  above  it.  AVonderful  in  my 
eyes,  though  my  eyes  were  always  open  to  the  effects  of 
majesty,  has  been  the  outcry  against  the  queen  in  the 
last  two  or  three  years  for  not  showing  herself  to  her  peo- 
ple. And  not  less  wonderful  has  it  seemed  that  of  all  our 
very  able  and  intellectual  writers  on  public  affairs,  with 
their  infinite  variety  of  views,  no  one  has  asked  the  ques- 
tion—' What  went  ye  out  for  to  see  ?'  or  has  found  it  in  his 
heart  to  make  the  answer  that  it  was  not  a  projihet  or 
more  than  a  prophet,  but  really  and  truly  this  time  a  reed 
shaken  with  the  wind.  It  would  appear  that  a  shadow 
has  fallen  across  the  whole  country,  intellectual  and  unin- 
tellcctual,  philosophic  or  popular,  because  it  finds  itself 
deprived  of  the  light  of  the  countenance  of  the  queen 
—a  poor,  bereaved,  elderly  lady,  with  broken  spirits  and 
indifferent  health.      Wliat  stronger  evidence  can  there 


Letter  to  Lord  Blachford.  239 

be  of  the  influeuce  of  orders  and  degrees  ?  And  if  it  be 
said  that  there  is  some  substantial  political  poAver  at  the 
back  (as  some  ex-ministers  have  been  lately  asseverating), 
t*he  answer  is,  that  even  that  power,  such  as  it  is,  is  de- 
rived from  the  other.  And,  whcncesoever  derived,  prob- 
ably no  person  conversant  with  public  affairs  would  vent- 
ure to  assert  that  it  is  equal  to  the  power  exercised  by 
divers  peers  and  members  of  the  House  of  Commons. 
Therefore,  i)rovided  you  eschew,  as  I  hope  you  will,  gam- 
bling, bankruptcy,  drunkenness,  and  any  conspicuous  and 
palpable  profligacy,  you  will  fulfil  some  of  the  uses  of  a 
peer,  even  though  you  should  do  nothing  but  plant  trees 
at  Blachfoi'd,  and  feed  and  fatten  upon  that  excellent 
venison  of  which  you  sent  me  a  specimen  just  before  you 
went  abroad,  and  Avhich  has  made  me  long  ever  since  for 
your  safe  and  happy  return. 

"And,  next,  as  to  your  legislative  uses.  I  feel  all  the 
difficulty  that  you  can  possibly  feel  in  making  up  one's 
mind  on  political  questions.  I  have  felt  it  all  my  life  long, 
and  should  have  felt  it  even  without  any  spending  of  the 
determinative  forces  on  matters  of  mere  administration: 
but  unless  you  should  become  a  cabinet  minister  (which 
is  likely  enough,  perhaps)  the  questions  coming  to  you  for 
decision  as  a  peer  will  be,  for  the  most  part,  or  jierhaps  I 
should  say  would  be  to  me  and  may  be  to  you,  less  per- 
plexing than  those  which  are  presented  to  a  member  of 
the  other  House.  They  are  so  often  questions  of  the  ex- 
ercise of  the  veto  which  has  now  been  transferred  from 
the  crown  to  the  House  of  Lords — questions  whether  it 
is  not  better  to  do  nothing.  But  it  is  in  respect  of  the 
political  and  organic  rather  than  the  administrative  ques- 
tions in  which  legislation  is  concerned  that  I  should  feel  it 
most  difficult  to  take  decisions;  and  whenever  I  might 
meet  with  serious  difficulties  and  doubts  on  organic  ques- 


240  Autobiograjyhy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

tions,  I  should  set  up  my  rest  in  tilings  as  they  are.  Of 
course  I  am  aware  that  there  are  many  exceptions  and  dis- 
tinctions to  be  taken  in  carrying  such  a  principle  into 
practice;  hut  still  I  feel  that  there  is  something  of  sub- 
stance in  it  which  would  often  come  to  my  relief. 

"And,  lastly,  how  will  you  speak?  If  in  conformity 
with  the  natural  action  of  your  mind,  it  will  be  with  im- 
petuosity constantly  checked  and  interrupted  by  pauses 
for  circumspection  and  revision.  And  what  will  be  the 
effect?  Will  the  natural  force  of  your  mind  be  the  more 
recognized  for  the  very  naturalness  with  which  it  breaks 
its  way,  or  will  it  compete  at  a  disadvantage  with  the 
smooth  volubility  of  practised  performers?  I  have  faith 
in  the  former  result.  I  remember  Carlyle's  lectures,  de- 
livered when  he  was  an  obscure  Avriter.  I  had  made  great 
ciforts  to  obtain  for  him  as  numerous  an  audience  as  pos- 
sible. Though  he  was  nervous  to  the  last  degree,  he  re- 
solved that  they  should  be  spoken  extempore.  His  utter- 
ances were  Avild  and  strange  and  convulsive,  and  once  and 
again  I  felt  as  if  it  would  all  full  to  pieces;  but  I  observed 
before  long  that  the  very  throes  and  gasps  and  agonies 
of  the  parturition  serv'cd  to  enchain  the  attention  of  his 
hearers:  and  it  was  these  lectures  which  gave  Carlyle  his 
first  launch  into  popularity." 

Mrs.  Cameron  was  not  content  that  Sir  F.  Rogers  should 
be  raised  to  the  peerage  and  I  be  left  a  commoner.  My 
reply  to  her  is  in  a  letter  of  the  15th  October,  1871:  "I 
beg  to  say  that  in  one  or  two  of  your  late  letters  you  have 
been  talking  something  not  wholly  unlike  nonsense  about 
me  in  connection  Avith  Frederic  Rogers's  peerage.  1st. 
Self-depreciation  is  not  at  all  in  my  line,  and  I  mean  noth- 
ing of  the  kind  when  I  say  that  Rogers's  administrative 
power  is  far,  far  superior  to  mine.  2d.  Rogers  was  an 
under  secretary  of  state,  which  I  am  not.     It  is  true  that 


Retirement  from  Colonial  Office.  241 

it  is  by  my  own  choice  that  I  am  not;  but  that  choice  had 
its  natural  and  necessary  consequences.  A  man  cannot 
both  renounce  and  enjoy.  3d.  Rogers  was  already  in  the 
next  rank  to  the  peerage.  He  is  the  eighth  in  descent  of 
a  line  of  baronets;  I  am  the  son  of  the  younger  son  of  an 
insignificant  squire.  4th.  Rogers  has  an  estate  and  no 
son;  I  have  a  son  and  no  estate — both  matters  which,  in 
the  eyes  of  the  ministers,  must  have  an  essential  bearing 
on  the  creation  of  a  peer.  You  will  see,  therefore,  that 
there  is  no  question  whatever  of  such  a  comparison  as  has 
suggested  itself  to  you.  In  point  of  fact  the  only  possible 
peerage  for  me  was  the  life  peerage  Lord  Russell  designed 
for  me  under  his  life-peerage  bill  of  1869.  It  Avas  read 
a  second  time  in  the  Lords  with  little  opposition ;  but  was 
unable  to  get  on,  partly  for  want  of  time  before  the  ses- 
sion closed,  and  partly  (if  I  recollect  right)  from  some 
sudden  turn  in  the  posture  of  political  parties  in  the  Lords. 
I  should  have  rather  liked  the  life  peerage,  but  I  can  do 
very  well  without  it." 

In  another  year  or  two  my  own  retirement  Avas  to  fol- 
loAV  that  of  Sir  F.  Rogers.  The  first  foretokening  of  it 
occurs  in  a  letter  to  Alice  on  the  IGth  June,  1872:  "  When 
I  was  at  Blachford  a  dim  sort  of  presentiment  of  retiring 
on  a  pension,  which  I  had  not  liked  to  mention  in  the  days 
of  its  dimness,  rcA'caled  itself  with  a  little  more  of  light 
upon  it,  and  I  spoke  to  Blachford.  He,  I  believe,  has  al- 
AA-ays  had  a  feeling  about  my  subordinate  position  AA'hich 
I  have  not  had  myself;  and  the  notion  of  my  retirement 
seemed  very  acceptable  to  him.  "VVe  had  a  good  deal  of 
talk  about  it,  and  yesterday  I  received  the  letter  from  him 
Avhich  I  enclose,  and  to-day  I  send  the  answer,  of  which  I 
enclose  a  copy.  That  answer  is  one  Avhich  he  will  be  able 
to  show  should  it  seem  desirable;  but  I  send  him  along 
with  it  a  separate  note  begging  him  not  to  commit  me  to 
IL— 11 


242  Autohiograjphy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

anything,  inasmuch  as  I  have  not  yet  consulted  you,  nor 
made  up  my  own  mind  on  the  subject.  What  chiefly 
weiglis  with  me  is  that  Ebden  lias  been  for  years  doing 
the  most  laborious  part  of  the  business  Avhich  it  would 
otherwise  have  belonged  to  me  to  do.  lie  has  been  doing 
it,  no  doubt,  by  his  own  choice;  but  it  has  been  done  with 
admirable  efficiency.  My  opinion  was  that  Avhen  Blach- 
f  ord  retired  and  Herbert  *  succeeded  him,  Ebden  ought  to 
have  succeeded  Herbert.  I  should  have  had  no  objection 
to  serve  under  him;  and  I  think  that  at  all  events  the 
time  has  come  when  he  ought  not  to  be  serving  under  me, 
and  doing  the  most  laborious  part  of  my  work.  Then  I 
think  that,  for  much  of  Avhat  I  used  to  do,  I  have  been 
lately  superfluous.  There  are  now  in  full  activity  one 
permanent  under  secretary  and  two  assistant  under  sec- 
retaries— all  three  decidedly  competent  and  able  men,  all 
somewhat  recently  appointed,  and  each  naturally  desirous 
to  make  his  efficiency  felt  and  to  have  an  opinion  of  his 
own  on  every  question.  This  lays  the  secretary  of  state 
open  to  some  of  the  evils  which  are  said  to  attend  a  mul- 
titude of  counsellors.  I  think  it  is  but  rarely  that  the 
present  secretary  of  state  has  been  the  better  for  my  ad- 
vice. If  I  should  retire  I  should  not  contemplate,  as 
Blachford  contemplates  for  me,  occasional  references  on 
large  questions.  Some  such  notion  was  entertained  when 
Sir  James  Stephen  retired.  Practically  it  would  come  to 
nothing;  and  as  far  as  it  is  intended  to  satisfy  my  own 
appetite  for  work,  I  should  not  desire  it.  It  is  habitual, 
daily,  methodical  work  which  I  should  miss  if  I  were  to 
miss  any.  The  single  subject  of  the  penal  code  I  might 
wish  to  be  heard  ujion,  for  the  chance  of  being  of  some  use 
in  consummating  what  it  has  fallen  to  my  lot  to, initiate." 

*  Then  assistant  under  secretary  of  state. 


Retirement  from  Colonial  Office.  243 

There  were  other  portions  of  my  work  which  I  could 
not  have  abandoned  without  regret  had  they  not  been  al- 
ready to  a  large  extent  in  the  hands  of  two  men  of  no  or- 
dinary industry  and  ability.  I  wrote  to  Lord  Blachford 
(15th  June,  1872):  "As  to  the  business  I  should  be  leav- 
ing behind,  Ebden  has  for  some  years  done  by  far  the 
more  laborious  portion  of  the  general  business,  great  and 
small,  which  has  been  done  up-stairs;  and  for  the  last  two 
or  three  years  or  more  I  have  devolved  upon  Fairfield  a 
large  portion  of  the  work  connected  with  prisons,  hos- 
pitals, lunatic  asylums,  and  criminal  statistics.  If  Ebden 
and  Fairfield  should  continue  in  charge  of  the  general 
West  Indian  business  and  those  other  matters,  I  could 
leave  all  behind  without  any  solicitude  as  to  the  amount 
of  attention  they  would  receive  in  subordinate  hands,  as 
well  as  in  those  which  are  not,  or  which  are  less,  sub- 
ordinate. 

"  Then  as  to  the  penal  code,  I  am  solicitous  about  that; 
and  I  had  thought  myself  under  an  obligation  (which 
probably  no  one  but  myself  would  recognize)  to  await 
the  completion  of  Wright's  draft  (which  may  be  expected 
before  the  end  of  this  year),  and  give  him  what  assistance 
I  could  in  bringing  it  under  consideration.  But  for  the 
last  year  or  two  I  have  much  doubted  whether  I  should 
possess,  or  whether,  indeed,  I  ought  to  be  allowed  to  pos- 
sess, much  influence  in  the  consideration  of  the  draft.  In 
the  matter  of  penal  law  I  am  more  or  less  of  an  innovator; 
and  it  is  very  rarely  that  an  innovator  who  is  not  in  a 
position  to  exercise  pressure /"rom  above  can  give  effect  to 
his  views.  What  I  chiefly  advocate  in  the  way  of  innova- 
tion would  be,  in  my  own  belief,  susceptible  of  very  cau- 
tious and  tentative  beghniings;  but  they  would  be  begin- 
nings upon  a  new  principle;  and  the  adoption  of  new 
principles  in  a  specific  branch  of  science  is  not  brought 


2-14  Aidobiograj)hy  of  Ilennj  Taylor. 

about  by  writing  and  arguing  in  an  office,  unless  supported 
by  wciglity  authority  in  that  kind.  At  the  end  of  my 
'  Considerations  Preliminary  to  the  Preparation  of  a  Penal 
Code'  I  -wrote:  'Much  of  what  I  have  said,  if  desei'ving 
of  consideration,  will  need  to  be  considered  by  men  whose 
practical  conversancy  with  penal  jurisdiction  shall  entitle 
their  opinions  to  be  regarded  with  respect;  and  no  im- 
portant innovation,  not  hitherto  sifted  in  the  controversies 
and  discussions  of  lawyers  and  statesmen,  should  be  adopted 
Avithout  the  sanction  of  some  high  authority  in  matters  of 
jurisprudence.'  Now  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  some 
of  these  high  authorities  will  be  prepared  to  suppoi't  some 
of  my  views:  but  whether  this  be  so  or  not,  it  does  not 
seem  likely  that  my  continued  attachment  to  the  colonial 
office  would  make  much  difference;  especially  if,  as  you 
are  led  to  think,  I  should  have  an  opportunity  of  being 
heard,  my  retirement  notwithstanding." 

The  decision  was  taken  two  months  later,  and  arrange- 
ments were  made  for  continuing  in  my  retirement  my 
connection  with  the  several  subjects  in  Avhich  I  Avas  espe- 
cially interested. 

I  announced  it  to  Lord  Grey  (30th  August,  18V2): 
"...  Before  I  received  your  letter  I  had  been  intending  to 
write  to  you.  I  am  about  to  retire  from  the  colonial  of- 
fice, and  I  should  not  have  liked  to  do  so  without  men- 
tioning it.  On  looking  back  to  the  times  when  I  served 
under  you,  I  have  been  rather  wondering  at  myself,  and 
thinking  that,  though  there  may  be  things  of  which  you 
are  not  tolerant,  there  are  others  of  Avhich  you  can  be 
more  tolerant  than  most  men.  But  what  I  wished  to  say 
is,  that  during  the  last  twelve  years,  disabled  as  I  have 
been  for  daily  attendance  at  my  office,  I  could  scarcely 
have  held  on  to  it  but  for  the  offer  you  made  me  in  1847 
of  the  place  of  under  secretary  of  state  in  succession  to 


Retirement  from  Colonial  Office.  245 

Stephen.  My  position  has  been  so  anomalous  that,  though 
it  was  at  the  desire  of  the  secretary  of  state  that  I  re- 
mained in  it,  I  could  not  Avell  have  continued  for  all  these 
years  to  stand  in  the  way  of  the  promotion  of  others,  had 
I  not  formerly  refused  it  for  myself.  I  venture  to  think 
that  the  public  interests  have  not  been  the  worse  for  the 
greater  leisure  which  so  much  confinement  to  the  house 
has  given  me.  I  have  projected  and  carried  forward  some 
reforms  in  colonial  administration  which  without  that  lei- 
sure it  would  not  perhaps  have  occurred  to  nie  to  under- 
take, or  have  been  possible  for  me  to  work  out  to  the 
point  they  have  now^  reached.  Lord  Kimberley  wishes 
me  to  keep  my  hand  upon  them  still,  notwithstanding 
ray  retirement;  and  I  am  -willing  and  desirous  to  do  so. 
But  the  office  is  Avell  manned;  the  under  secretary  and  the 
two  assistant  under  secretaries  are  all  three  able  and  in- 
dustrious, and  there  are  some  clerks  who  are  not  less  so. 
My  retirement  is,  therefore,  not  unseasonable  as  regards 
the  department,  any  more  than  at  seventy-two  years  of  age 
it  can  be  called  unseasonable  as  regards  myself. 

"In  speaking  of  your  offer  of  1847,  there  comes  to  me 
a  dim  recollection  of  something  very  abrupt  and  uncouth 
in  my  way  of  refusing  it.  I  do  not  know  that  I  ever  ex- 
plained to  you  why  I  refused  it,  and  indeed  I  could  not 
properly  have  given  the  explanation  at  the  time.  The  rea- 
son was  that  Stephen  had  applied  to  me,  as  to  one  of  his 
most  intimate  friends,  for  my  advice  as  to  whether  he  should 
or  should  not  retire.  I  advised  him  in  the  affirmative; 
and  after  advising  him  to  retire,  it  was  of  course  impos- 
sible for  me  to  step  into  his  place:  nor  could  I  allow  the 
reasons  of  my  refusal  to  transpire  without  seeming  to 
invite  a  waiver  of  them.  But  I  felt  at  the  time — and  the 
feeling  has  come  back  upon  me — that  I  managed  the  mat- 
ter very  awkwardly  with  you ;   and   that  I  never  said 


246  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

what  any  man  who  was  not  very  graceless  and  ungrateful 
would  naturally  have  said  upon  such  an  occasion." 

Lord  Grey  approved  of  my  retirement,  and  had  no  rec- 
ollection of  any  abruptness  in  the  manner  of  refusing  his 
offer  of  the  place  of  under  secretary  of  state  in  1847.  He 
had  not  had  the  slightest  suspicion,  he  said,  of  the  real 
motive,  as  I  had  now  explained  it.  "If  I  remember  right," 
he  added,  "  you  put  your  decision  a  good  deal  upon  your 
being  unwilling  to  give  up  your  whole  time  to  the 
public  service,  and  thus  to  debar  yourself  from  literary 
pursuits,  which,  considering  the  great  success  you  had 
had  in  those  pursuits,  I  thought  very  natural."  This,  as 
I  have  explained  under  the  date  of  1847,  xcas  a  motive,  as 
shown  in  ray  letters  of  that  time  to  my  father  and  mother, 
as  also  was  my  weakness  of  health.  lie  proceeds  :  "  If 
the  fact  of  my  having  made  you  the  offer  facilitated  your 
subsequent  retention  of  your  place  when  imable  to  give 
personal  attendance  in  the  office,  I  may  congratulate  my- 
self upon  having  done  the  public  a  great  service  by  hav- 
ing made  it."  " 

On  the  11th  September,  1872, 1  wrote  to  a  friend:  "As 
to  my  change  of  life,  it  has  not  taken  effect  yet.  I  am 
not  to  drop  my  work  till  the  end  of  the  month.  It  is 
true,  as  you  say,  that  I  have  been  used  to  look  upon  my 
work  as  a  necessary  of  life;  and  I  have  yet  to  learn  how 
to  live  without  it.  But  when  I  had  once  come  to  the 
decision  that  there  were  good  reasons  why  I  should  retire 
I  found  my  feelings  about  it  change  rather  rapidly,  and  I 
am  now  looking  on  to  the  end  of  the  month  as  bringing  a 
relief  rather  tlian  a  privation.  Perhaps  Blachford's  resig- 
nation a  year  and  a  half  ago  made  more  difference  to  me 
than  I  had  been  aware  of  at  once.  He  has  been  the 
greatest  and  most  affectionate  friend  of  my  latter  life, 
and  perhaps  I  did  not  know  how  much  of  my  love  of  my 


Retirement  from  Colonial  Office.  247 

work  was  clue  to  liim.  As  to  my  autobiography— yes, 
that  is  to  be  my  resource  for  occupation  ;  and  I  have 
begun  ah-eady  the  work  of  reading  and  weeding  great 
bundles  of  old  letters." 


Chapter  XXII. 

SIR  JAMES  STEPHEN.-LORD  MELBOURNE.-MR.  GLADSTONE. 

Anno  Dom.  1872.     Anno  Mt.  72. 

Lord  Granville  once  told  mo  that  I  ought  to  repub- 
lish "  The  Statesman,"  illustrated  by  portraits  of  the  pol- 
iticians who  had  been  personally  known  to  me.  That 
work  is  on  too  small  a  scale  for  such  portraits  to  push 
their  way  in.  If  a  place  could  be  found  for  them  in  this, 
it  would  be  here,  at  the  close  of  my  official  life.  But  the 
question  is,  are  there  any  such  portraits  producible  ?  I 
have  had  occasion,  in  carllor  chapters,  to  say  something  of 
three  or  four  statesmen  who  have  been  more  or  less  known 
to  me.  Among  these  there  are  some,  and  pre-eminently 
one,  of  whom,  if  a  life  Avere  to  be  written,  it  would  be  a 
most  interesting  life,  presenting  an  admirable  model  of 
what  a  statesman  ought  to  be  :  but,  with  scarce  an  ex- 
ception, there  is  no  one,  as  seen  by  me,  who  will  lend 
himself  to  n  j)  let  are.  Lord  Bacon  says,  "There  is  no  ex- 
cellent beauty  without  some  strangeness  in  the  propor- 
tion." The  portrait -painter  in  "St.  Clement's  Eve"  is 
quite  aware  of  this,  and  understands  how  it  happens. 
Montargis,  adverting  to  his  portrait  of  the  Duchess  of 
Burgundy,  puts  a  question  to  him: 

"Tlie  mole 
Upon  the  neck — is  that,  as  some  swer, 
An  added  cliaira,  or  is  it  not  a  blemisli  ?" 

To  which  the  reply  is : 


Portraits.  249 

"There  is  a  power  in  beauty  wliicli  subdues 
All  accidents  of  Nature  to  itselC. 
Aurora  comes  in  clouds,  and  \ct  tlie  cloud 
Dims  not,  but  decks  her  beauty.     So  of  slinpe  ; 
Perfect  proportion,  like  unclouded  light. 
Is  but  a  faultless  model ;  small  defect 
Conjoint  with  excellence  more  moves  and  wins, 
Making  the  heavenly  human." 

Montargis  is  not  convinced: 

"For  myself, 
Unto  things  heavenly  am  I  devote. 
And  not  to  moles  and  weals  or  humps  and  bumps." 

But  whatever  theory  we  may  adopt  or  reject  as  to  beauty 
when  we  are  painting  the  picture  of  a  woman,  there  can 
be  no  question  that  distinct  individuality  is  essential  to 
effectiveness  in  the  written  picture  of  a  man:  and  it  is 
some  irregularity,  incongruity,  or  disproportion,  and  per- 
haps a  little  eccentricity,  which  enables  us  to  individualize 
with  effect. 

Now  perhaps  I  might  find  some  mole  or  weal  or  hump 
or  bump,  to  give  effect  to  the  picture  of  some  statesman 
whom  I  have  known  well.  But  in  that  case,  though  the 
picture  might  present  in  its  totality  what  is  much  to  be 
commended,  and  though  I  may  permit  myself  to  see  my 
friend  as  he  is,  when  I  see  him  with 

"  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude," 

yet  I  should  not  like  to  be  quite  so  coolly  discriminating 
when  painting  his  picture  to  be  sent  to  the  Exhibition. 

There  are  two  men,  however,  of  whom  I  may  venture 
to  give  some  sort  of  scribbled  etching,  which  is  all  that  is 
meant  when  a  picture  by  a  pen  is  hazarded.  The  one, 
Lord  Melbourne,  a  man  with  whom,  much  as  I  admired 
him,  I  had  merely  the  slight  and  social  acquaintance 
which  imposes  no  restraint;  the  other,  James  Stephen,  a 
IT.— 11* 


250  Autobiography  of  Ilenry  Taylor. 

true  and  valued  friend,  but  a  man  of  so  high  an  order, 
spiritual,  moral,  and  intellectual,  that  an  indication  of 
some  little  iieculiaritics  pertaining  to  him  can  have  no 
other  effect  than  to  verify  and  attest  the  likeness. 

Such  a  scratch  of  a  sketch  as  I  can  give  of  Stephen  was 
given  in  a  letter  to  Lord  Granville,  of  7th  December,  18G9: 
"  What  you  say  of  James  Stephen  is  very  much  what  I 
should  say  myself;  only  I  should  add  two  or  three  super- 
latives to  what  you  say  of  his  abilities,  knowledge,  and 
working  power,  and  modify  what  you  say  about  manner. 
He  had  an  intellect  of  a  wide  range  and  a  singular  sub- 
tilty,  wdth  much  activity  of  the  imaginative  faculty — I 
think  one  of  the  largest  intellects  of  his  day  and  genera- 
tion. The  origin  of  the  outcry  against  him  was  faithfully 
represented  in  the  epithets  used  :  '  Mr.  Mother-Country 
Stephen,'  and  *Mr,  Over-Secretary  Stephen.'  For  more 
than  twenty-five  years,  during  short  tenures  of  strong  sec- 
retaries of  state,  and  entire  tenures,  whether  short  or  not, 
of  some  who  were  not  strong,  he,  more  than  any  other  man, 
virtually  governed  the  colonial  empire.  Not  that  he  was 
otherwise  than  profoundly  subordinate;  but  he  found  the 
way  to  bring  men  to  his  own  conclusions.  And  his  advan- 
tages from  knowledge,  experience,  intellectual  i:>ower,  and 
enormous  industry  were  such  that  perhaps  no  man  of  sense 
could  have  failed  to  defer  largely  to  his  judgment. 

*'IIe  was  fervently  religious;  and  he  shared  the  anti- 
slavery  sentiments  of  his  father,  INIaster  Stephen,  and  his 
uncle,  Mr.  Wilberforce,  Avith  an  ardor  fully  equal  to  their 
own.  It  Avas  this  ardor  which  led  him,  when  he  had  not 
long  entered  middle  age,  to  exchange  a  practice  at  the 
bar,  yielding  £3000  a  year,  for  the  office  of  counsel  to  the 
colonial  office,  with  £1500,  whereby  he  hoped  to  get  a 
hold  upon  the  policy  of  the  government  in  the  matter  of 
slavery.  In  this  he  was  eminently  successful;  and  it  was 
this  success  which  first  raised  the  outcry. 


Sir  James  Stephen.  251 

"The  outcry  took  effect  upon  Lord  Derby,  when  he 
became  secretary  of  state  for  the  colonies  in  1833;  and 
he  began  by  renouncing  all  aid  or  advice  from  Stephen 
in  the  slavery  measures  which  at  that  moment  it  had  be- 
come indispensable  that  the  government  should  adopt. 
He  took  counsel  with  Sir  James  Graham,  and  they  de- 
vised a  scheme  which  was  brought  before  the  House  of 
Commons,  and  exploded  in  a  single  night,  to  Lord  Derby's 
signal  discomfiture;  and  in  this  predicament  he  had  re- 
course to  Stephen,  allowing  him  only  a  few  days  for  the 
preparation  of  a  new  measure.     Stephen  taxed  his  Avon- 
derful  powers  to  the  utmost  to  keep  the  prescribed  time; 
and  at  one  moment  his  brains  were  so  shaken  that  he  was 
advised  to  get  on  the  top  of  a  stage  coach  and  take  a 
long  day's  journey  any  whither,  by  way  of  an  intermis- 
sion, which  he   did.     Perhaps   the   effect   of   that   early 
strain  may  have  rendered  his  brains  a  more  easy  prey  to 
the  malady  Avhich  came  upon  him  in  1847,  and  drove  him 
from  office.     Lord  Derby  made  a  great  speech,  which  in 
substance  was  a  reproduction  of  a  long  report  by  Stephen; 
and  having  sucked  his   orange  and  made  his  speech,  he 
laid  his  orange  aside.     I  recollect  something  Stephen  said 
to  me  many  years  after,  which  will  give  you  both  an  idea 
of  how  he  was  treated,  and  a  little  specimen  of  the  rich- 
ness of  his  conversational  diction.     My  son  was  danger- 
ously ill  with  peritonitis;  and  Stephen  having  given  me 
a  rather  minute  account  of   a   similar   illness    of   Lord 
Derby's  son  and  of  what  Avas  done   in   that  case,  pro- 
ceeded: 'You  will  wonder  how  I  came  to  know  all  this; 
but  the  fact  is  that  I  met  Lord  Derby  at  the  kvee  the 
other  day,  and  he  spoke  to  me  of  his  son's  illness  in  a 
tone  for  which  I  was  quite  unprepared;  for  in  all  the  time 
when  I  saw  him  daily  upon  business,  I  cannot  recollect 
that  he  ever  said  one  word  to  me  about  anything  else  but 


252  Autohiognqjhy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

business;  cmdicJien  the  stupeiidoiis  glacier  ichich  had  tow- 
ered over  my  head  for  so  many  years  came  to  dissolve  and 
descend  iqyon  me  hi  this  2)arental  deic,  you  may  imagine^ 
etc.,  etc.'' 

"As  to  his  views  upon  other  colonial  questions,  they 
were,  perhaps,  as  you  have  heard,  more  liberal  than  those 
of  most  of  his  chiefs;  and  at  one  important  conjuncture 
he  miscalculated  the  effect  of  a  liberal  confidence  placed 
in  a  Canadian  assembly,  and  threw  more  power  into  their 
hands  than  he  intended  them  to  possess  :  but  I  am  too 
little  conversant  with  what  took  place  out  of  my  own 
division  of  business  to  say  much  about  his  colonial  policy 
at  large. 

"He  had,  as  you  suppose,  a  strong  avIII,  and  he  had 
great  tenacity  of  opinion:  so  that,  if  he  did  make  a  mis- 
take (which  was  very  seldom,  considering  the  prodigious 
quantity  of  business  he  despatched),  his  subordinates 
could  scarcely  venture  to  point  it  out;  he  gave  them  so 
much  trouble  before  he  could  be  evicted  of  his  error. 
And,  in  like  manner,  he  was  at  a  great  disadvantage  in 
private  life,  from  being  so  sensitive  that  his  friends  did 
not  dare  to  mention  anything  which  they  thought  might 
be  mended:  not  that  he  would  be  angry  or  quarrel  with 
them,  but  that  he  suffered  so  much  from  it.  Perhaps  I 
was  more  hardy  than  most  of  his  friends.  I  remember  on 
one  occasion  saying:  *But  surely  the  simple  thing  to 
do  was — so  and  so;'  to  which  he  answered  doubtfully, 
adding,  'The  truth  is,  that  I  am  not  a  simple  man;'  to 
which  I  replied,  *No,  you  are  the  most  composite  man 
that  I  have  met  with  in  all  my  experience  of  human 
nature.' 

"  His  manner  was  not,  I  think,  what  you  suppose,  stern 
and  pompous;  but  it  was  singularly  infelicitous,  and  no 
doubt  had  a  great  deal  to  do  with  his  unpopularity.     He 


Sir  James  Stephen.  253 

bad  been,  in  early  life,  sby  beyond  all  shyness  that  you 
could  imagine  in  any  one  whose  soul  had  not  been  pre- 
existent  in  a  wild  duck.  And  though  some  of  the  shy- 
ness wore  off  in  after  life,  much  remained  to  the  last,  and 
the  manner  resulting  from  it  remained.  When  he  talked 
to  you  his  eyes  were  invisible;  and  he  went  on  in  a  mild, 
low,  slow,  continuous  stream  of  discourse,  as  if  afraid  to 
stop,  not  knowing  what  might  happen.  And  the  wonder 
was,  that  with  all  the  monotony  of  utterance,  there  was 
such  a  variety  and  richness  of  thought  and  language,  and 
often  so  much  wit  and  humor,  that  one  could  not  help 
being  interested  and  attentive.  But  to  strangers  coming 
to  him  on  business,  of  course  his  talk  could  not  be  of  the 
same  quality,  while  it  was  of  the  same  continuity:  and  I 
recollect  one  indignant  gentleman  saying  that,  from  the 
moment  when  he  entered  Stephen's  room  at  the  office, 
intent  upon  something  he  had  to  say  to  him,  Stephen  be- 
gan to  speak,  and  after  speaking  for  half  an  hour  with- 
out a  moment's  pause,  rose,  bowed,  thanked  him  for  his 
valuable  information,  and  rang  the  bell. 

"I  have  answered  you  long ;  but  if  you  ask  old  people 
about  past  times,  you  must  expect  them  to  be  gai-rulous, 
and  you  have  no  right  to  complain." 

Having  had  occasion  to  speak  of  Sir  James  Stephen 
and  his  ways  and  works  more  than  once  in  my  first  vol- 
ume, I  will  be  content  to  say  no  more  of  him  here,  and  I 
pass  to  my  other  sitter. 

Though  it  was  only  by  meeting  him  in  society  that  I 
knew  Lord  Melbourne,  the  impression  he  made  upon  me 
was  distinct.  In  conversation  his  tone  was  careless;  but 
it  would  have  been  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  what  he  said 
was  said  thoughtlessly.  He  had  no  vanities,  and  he  cared 
little  for  effect  in  conversation,  except  in  so  far  as  it 
amused  him  with  himself  ;  but  he  read  and  thought  in 


254  Axitobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

divers  clii'ections — in  some  wliich  might  liave  been  sup- 
posed to  lie  a  good  deal  out  of  liis  way  of  life.  lie  was 
conversant,  I  believe,  with  tlie  writings  of  the  early  fathers 
of  the  Church;  but  I  should  imagine  that  he  read  them 
from  curiosity  and  for  entertainment  more  than  for  edifi- 
cation. If  he  had  moral  or  religious  sentiments  of  any 
particular  gravity,  they  were  not  only  kept  out  of  sight, 
but  more  or  less  slighted  externally.  What  was  to  be  seen 
■was  a  manly  and  robust  constitution  of  mind  and  body, 
with  an  easy  and  ej^icurean  enjoyment  of  life — life  physi- 
cal, life  social,  and  life  intellectual.  Invariable  good-hu- 
mor went  along  with  it;  and  the  result  was  a  man  Avhom 
it  was  more  pleasant  to  meet  than  almost  any  other  person 
society  in  London  had  to  produce. 

The  interest  and,  if  I  am  right  in  my  conjecture,  the 
amusement  which  theological  fancies  and  caprices  afford- 
ed him  were  not  confined  to  those  which  came  before  hira 
in  the  encounters  of  the  ancient  divines  with  the  heresies 
of  the  past.  Some  which  belonged  to  his  own  generation 
were  interesting  also.  At  the  time  when  he  was  a  mem- 
ber of  the  government  (as  home  secretary,  I  think,  and 
before  he  was  at  the  head  of  it)  Mr.  Spencer  Percival, 
eldest  son  of  the  first  minister  of  that  name,  was  a  leading 
member — "Archangel,"  as  they  called  him — of  the  Irving- 
ite  Church.  He  Avas  a  sincere  and  devout  man  ;  and 
though,  like  another  of  their  "Angels,"  Mr.  Henry  Drum- 
mond,  a  man  of  the  world  and  a  man  of  wit,  these  qualities 
seemed  to  be  utterly  lost  and  absorbed  Avhen  a  religious 
fancy  took  possession  of  him.  Once  he  conceived  himself 
to  have  come  to  the  knowledge  (whether  by  special  reve- 
lation or  by  interpretation  of  the  prophecies  I  do  not  re- 
member) that  the  end  of  the  Avorld  was  to  arrive  at  some 
particular  date  not  far  distant;  and  he  imagined  also  that 
he  had  been  charged  with  a  mission  to  make  the  fact 


Lord  Melbourne.  255 

known  to  each  of  the  qucen''s  ministers.  He  went  round 
to  them  accordingly,  and  was  received  in  different  moods 
by  different  men.  Some  were  impatient  of  the  interrup- 
tion to  their  business  by  a  somewhat  jjrolonged  deliver- 
ance of  Avhat  they  regarded  as  fanatical  nonsense.  Lord 
Melbourne,  on  the  contrary,  listened  with  amused  and  un- 
tiring attention  to  the  end.  Then  he  inquired — rubbing 
his  hands  with  suppressed  glee:  "Were  there  not  to  be 
false  prophets  about  that  time?"  And,  knowing  Spencer 
Percival,  as  I  did,  in  his  seasons  of  pleasantness  and 
mirth,  I  can  scarcely  imagine  that  some  gleam  of  his  sun- 
shiny, secular  self  would  not  then  have  broken  through 
the  cloud  of  prophecy  that  enveloped  him. 

In  Lord  IMelbourne's  way  of  dealing  with  men  there 
was  sometimes  a  sort  of  blunt  adroitness,  contrasting 
strangely  with  the  solemnities  of  high  office  commonly 
supposed  to  belong  to  the  model  statesman.  When  a 
board  of  commissioners  was  to  be  constituted  for  the  su- 
pervision of  charitable  endowments,  a  well-known  member, 
of  Parliament  of  more  than  ordinary  abilities,  who  had  for 
some  years  been  successful  in  obtaining  the  ear  of  the 
House  of  Commons — for  he  had  a  real  gift  of  oratory — 
aspii-ed  to  be  one  of  the  three  of  whom  it  was  to  be  com- 
posed. Unfortunately,  in  his  earlier  life  he  had  lost  his 
character,*  and  that  fact  was  not  altogether  forgotten. 
He  had  considerable  claims  upon  the  government,  and  he 

*  Soutliey  told  me  what  had  transpired  in  a  suit  at  hiw,  and  how  it  had 
been  dealt  with  by  tiie  judge.     It  came  out  in  evidence  incidentally  that 

Mr. ,  who  was  a  solicitor,  had  advised  a  client  to  sell  an  estate,  and 

then,  contriving  that  it  should  be  sold  at  a  disadvantage,  had  bought  it 
surreptitiously  in  another  man's  name.  At  the  conclusion  of  the  trial  the 
judge  adverted  to  this  proceeding,  and  said  :  "  I  wish  it  to  be  publicly  un- 
derstood in  this  court  that  a  man  cannot  cheat  his  client  in  tiie  way  in 

which  ]\[r. has  cheated  his  client — without  impropriety — without 

great  impropriety." 


256  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

urged  them  on  the  secretary  of  the  treasury  without  avail. 
One  commissioner  of  the  three  was  appointed — and  then 
another.  The  third  was  still  a  possibility.  He  despaired 
of  the  secretary  of  the  treasury,  and  as  his  last  chance  he 
went  direct  to  Lord  Melbourne.  lie  recounted  the  many 
occasions  on  which  he  had  supported  the  government  in 
the  House  of  Commons  and  the  important  services  he  had 
rendered.  Lord  Melbourne  heard  him  to  the  end;  and 
then  in  one  sentence  rescued  himself  from  any  charge  of 
ingratitude  on  the  one  hand  or  improper  concession  on 
the  other:  *'I5ut,  damn  the  fellows,  they  say  they  won't 
serve  with  you." 

He  was  first  minister  at  the  beginning  of  the  present 
reign;  and  the  deeper  and  more  serious  sentiments  that 
lay  hidden  in  his  nature  came  into  exercise  in  his  care  of 
the  queen.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  he  had  a  true  and 
fervent  affection  for  her,  which,  as  we  know  from  herself, 
was  amply  recognized  and  returned.  Except  what  I  have 
heard  from  others,  I  know  nothing  of  courts  or  of  their 
ways;  but  I  should  imagine  that  when  they  are  what  it  is 
considered,  perhaps  justly,  that  they  should  be,  the  life 
led  in  them  must  be  rather  a  dull  life,  especially  for  the 
highest  personage.  To  move  about  in  an  atmosphere  of 
profound  respect  which  it  is  a  duty  not  to  dis25ense  with 
or  disturb,  would  seem  to  be  intolerably  tiresome;  and  a 
girl  or  a  woman  in  such  a  position  is  more  inexorably 
bound  to  it  than  a  man.  If  the  girl-queen  found  her 
court  as  decorously  dull  as  I  am  imagining  that  courts 
ought  to  be,  such  a  first  minister  as  Lord  Melbourne,  enti- 
tled by  his  office  and  adapted  by  his  nature  to  be  more 
easily  and  brightly  companionable  than  any  one  else, must 
have  been  a  very  godsend  to  her. 

At  the  time  of  Queen  Victoria's  accession  the  educa- 
tion of  the  people  was  one  of  the  gravest  questions  of  the 


Lord  Melbourne.  257 

day ;  and  no  doubt  its  importance  had  been  weightily 
borne  in  upon  her;  but  still  she  must  have  felt  herself  a 
little  lightened  of  it  when  the  success  in  the  world  of  a 
family  of  high  aristocratic  position  was  adduced  by  her 
first  minister  as  an  example  the  other  way:  "I  don't  know 
why  they  make  all  this  fuss  about  education,  ma'am;  none 

of  the s  can  read  and  write,  and  they  get  on  very  well, 

ma'am." 

Solicitude  was  not  natural  to  Lord  Melbourne;  and 
from  some  of  his  ways,  superficially  regarded,  it  might 
have  been  supposed  that  he  was  a  little  reckless.  This 
would  have  been  a  mistake.  He  certainly  did  not  care  to 
seem  more  solicitous  than  he  was,  and  possibly  he  liked  to 
seem  less.  Sydney  Smith  believed  that  he  devoted  long 
and  laborious  hours  of  the  night  to  dry  commercial  ques- 
tions, and  then  affected  to  know  nothing  about  them.  He 
may  have  had  good  reasons  for  desiring  to  be  supposed  to 
have  nothing  to  say  to  one  or  another  of  them;  and,  on 
the  other  hand,  it  is  quite  j^ossible  that  he  may  have  in- 
dulged himself  in  being  a  little  whimsical.  He  certainly 
did  indulge  himself  in  that  way  more  than  any  other  man 
in  his  sort  of  position  could  have  done  with  impunity. 
None  of  our  public  men  have  aimed  less  at  playing  the 
'part  of  a  cautious  custodian  of  the  public  weal.  Some  of 
them,  perhaps,  have  aimed  at  it  a  little  too  much.  In  po- 
litical, and  especially  politico-official  life  in  this  country, 
nothing  contributes  more  surely  to  success  than  the  repu- 
tation of  being  what  is  called  "a  safe  man."  And  a  safe 
man  is  sometimes  one  whom  no  consideration  for  public 
interests  will  induce  to  run  risks,  knowing  them  to  be 
such,  of  miscarriage  and  personal  defeat.  Of  course,  there 
is  a  sort  of  safe  man  who  is  not  so  self-seeking;  and,  in 
the  case  of  a  politician  who  has  great  present  influence 
and  a  long  public  life  in  prospect,  the  public  and  the  per- 


258  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

sonal  interests  arc  often  mucli  intert angled.  He  must  re- 
tain the  confulencc  of  the  people  for  their  own  sakes. 

Sir  Robert  Peel  was  pre-eminently  a  safe  man — at  least 
in  aets  and  Avorks  and  public  ai)pearances.  Lord  Aber- 
deen, indeed,  than  whom,  I  sup})ose,  no  man  knew  him 
better,  once  told  me  that  he  was  the  most  indiscreet  man 
in  conversation  he  had  ever  met  with;  and  this  surprised 
me  much;  for  the  coldness  and  stiffness  of  his  manner  was 
quite  in  accordance  with  his  reputation  for  caution  and 
reserve.  But  it  may  be  that  conversational  ease  and  flu- 
ency will  better  enable  a  man  to  maintain  whatever  re- 
serve it  is  his  purpose  to  maintain,  than  either  a  strained 
taciturnity  or  a  penury  of  speech.  I  have  observed  some- 
where in  "  The  Statesman,"  speaking  of  men  who  betray 
secrets  from  being  shy  and  unready,  that  there  are  few 
wants  more  urgent  for  the  moment  than  the  want  of 
something  to  say.  It  is  difficult,  I  admit,  to  imagine  such 
a  want  in  Sir  Robert  Peel;  but  I  find  it  still  more  diffi- 
cult to  conceive  what  else  could  make  him  indiscreet  in 
conversation.  lie  once  spoke  to  a  friend  of  mine,  who 
knew  him  but  little, of  his  "unfortunate  manner,"  as  hav- 
ing led  to  his  sentiments  towards  that  person  being  mis- 
understood. But  whether  Lord  Aberdeen  was  right  or 
wrong,  Sir  Robert,  undoubtedly  and  not  undeservedly, 
stood  before  the  public  as,  more  than  any  other  politician 
of  his  time,  a  safe  man. 

Now,  as  I  have  said,  Lord  Melbourne  might  easily  have 
passed  for  the  opposite  of  safe,  lie  did  eccentric  things; 
and  eccentricity  goes  far  in  the  public  mind  to  inspire, 
and,  indeed,  in  most  cases  to  justify,  distrust  of  a  man's 
l)olitical  prudence.  But  the  truth  is  that  Lord  Melbourne 
could  afford  to  be  eccentric;  or,  at  least,  to  do  eccentric 
things  now  and  then.  And  another  truth  is  that  the  ec- 
centricity was  in  the  garment  only;  and  that  it  was  wont 


Lord  Melbourne.  259 

to  cover  a  body  of  solid  sense.  Or  perhaps  I  should  rath- 
er say,  that  it  consisted  in  throwing  off  upon  occasion  the 
official  garment  in  his  official  dealings  with  men,  and  be- 
ing more  of  his  genuine  self  than  is  usual,  or  than  in  most 
political  and  official  men  would  be  natural;  for  there  is  a 
second  nature  bred  of  use  and  wont  which  in  most  men  is 
stronger  than  the  first. 

Of  one  of  these  outbreaks  of  himself  I  gave  an  account, 
in  a  letter  to  Sir  Frederic  Rogers,  on  the  day  following  a 
discussion  in  the  House  of  Commons  of  the  services  ren- 
dered many  years  before  by  Sir  Francis  Head,*  at  the 
time  of  the  Canadian  rebellion.  He  was  then  Lieutenant- 
governor  of  Upper  Canada;  and,  rejecting  the  aid  of  the 
regular  troops  sent  to  him  by  the  governor-general,  had 
called  out  the  militia  to  fight  their  own  fellow-colonists. 
His  venture  was  successful,  and  the  rebellion  was  sup- 
pressed; but  his  conduct  was  disapproved  by  the  secretary 
of  state  for  the  colonies,  and  he  was  recalled.  I  wrote 
(12th  July,  1864):  "What  took  place  in  the  House  of 
Commons  last  night  about  Sir  Francis  Head  reminds  me  of 
Lord  Melbourne's  way  of  dealing  with  his  claims.  After 
his  return  from  Upper  Canada,  highly  indignant,  he  ap- 
pealed to  Lord  Melbourne.  Lord  Melbourne  appointed 
him  in  South  Street  at  ten  o'clock.  He  went.  Lord  Mel- 
bourne was  dressing.  He  was  shown  up  to  Lord  Mel- 
bourne's dressing-room.  Lord  Melbourne  was  shaving. 
He  begged  Sir  Francis  to  take  a  seat.  He  went  on  shav- 
ing. Sir  Francis  stated  his  case,  recounted  his  proceed- 
ings, and  alleged  that  he  had  saved  the  colony.  '  And  so 
you  did,'  said  Lord  Melbourne,  and  went  on  shaving. 
Sir  Francis,  much  encouraged,  proceeded  with  renewed 
energy,  and  enlarged  upon  the  risks  he  had  run  and  the 

*  Not  my  friend  Sir  Edmund. 


^0  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

servicGS  ho  liad  rendcrecl,  and  at  last  came  to  a  close. 
Lord  ]Mcll)Ourne  laid  down  his  razor,  and  replied,  '  But 
you're  such  a  damned  odd  fellow.'  And  this  was  all  the 
answer  to  his  ap})eal;  and  I  imagine  that  it  was  substan- 
tially the  true  answer.  Sir  Francis  was  a  man  of  no  ordi- 
nary abilities,  but  bold  beyond  the  bounds  of  prudence. 
He  bad  cut  a  wonderful  somersault  and  lit  upon  his  feet. 
If  he  were  to  be  employed  again,  everybody  knew  that 
there  would  be  more  somersaults,  and  nobody  knew  where 
he  would  light  next." 

My  stories  have  shown  that  Lord  Melbourne's  language 
was  not  wanting  in  the  use  of  expletives.  Li  the  earlier 
years  of  his  life  swearing  was  still  customary,  though  be- 
coming less  so.  During  the  whole  of  last  century,  swear- 
ing, as  well  as  drinking,  was  a  matter  of  course  with  all 
gentlemen  w^ho  were  not  in  holy  orders.  In  the  beginning 
of  this  century  I  think  the  presence  of  a  clergyman  was 
considered  to  place  some  restraint  upon  it.  I  remember  be- 
ing present  in  my  boyhood  when  a  laic,  not  inadvertently, 
swore  an  oath,  making  at  the  same  time  a  sort  of  ajDolo- 
getic  bow  to  an  elderly  clergyman,  avIio  returned  the  obei- 
sance in  a  manner  which  seemed  to  say  :  "Never  mind 
me."  Some  years  later  I  heard  an  account  of  an  interview 
between  the  Duke  of  Wellington  and  Archbishop  Ilowley, 
procured  by  the  duke  (then  first  minister)  with  the  object 
of  persuading  the  primate  to  support  the  Roman  Catholic 
Relief  Bill.  The  duke  said :  "  Oh,  by  God,  my  lord 
archbishop,  you  must  vote  with  us."  The  archbishop 
replied  :  "  By  the  grace  of  God,  my  lord  duke,  I  will 
not." 

That  the  surviving  majority  of  the  gentlemen  brought 
up  in  the  last  century  should  have  contrived  to  get  rid  of 
such  habits  in  the  first  half  of  this  is  more  surprising  than 
that  some  of  them,  like  Lord  Melbourne  and  the  Duke  of 


Lwd  Melbourne.  261 

Wellington,  should  have  failed  to  do  so.  Lord  Melbourne 
was  incorrigible.  Sydney  Smith  had  once  some  business 
to  transact  with  him  at  his  office,  and,  after  a  few  pre- 
liminary remarks  of  Lord  Melbourne's,  Avas  led  to  make  a 
proposal:  "If  you  have  no  objection,  Ave  will  take  every- 
body and  everything  as  sufficiently  damned  already,  and 
proceed  to  business," 

What  more  I  have  to  say  about  Lord  Melbourne  is  of 
another  complexion: 

"To  be  a  prodigal's  favorite,  then,  worse  truth, 
A  miser's  pensioner — behold  our  lot ! 
Oh,  man  !  that  from  thy  fair  and  shining  youth 

Age  might  but  take  the  things  youtli  needed  not."* 

The  transition  from  a  prodigal's  favorite  to  a  miser's  pen- 
sioner w\as  precipitated  in  Lord  Melbourne's  case  by  an 
attack  of  paralysis.  The  transition  was  precipitated,  but 
the  altered  state  was  prolonged : 

"Death  his  dart 
Shook,  but  delayed  to  strike." 

And  such  a  prolongation,  mournful  as  it  is  to  contemplate 
in  whatever  sphere,  takes  a  somewhat  deeper  color  of 
mournfulness  in  the  case  of  a  life  which  Avas  not  only,  by 
its  nature,  one  of  abounding  temporal  enjoyment,  but  was 
also  busied  in  a  high  temporal  vocation.  \\\  the  case  of 
such  a  man  so  much  seems  to  be  buried  alive. 

Tavo  men  of  Lord  Melbourne's  time,  conspicuous  in  the 
same  sphere — Mr.  Huskisson  and  Sir  Robert  Peel — had 
the  better  fortune  of  sudden  death  by  accident.  Canning 
died  after  an  illness  of  a  few  weeks,  just  about  the  time 
predicted  by  Southey  in  a  letter  to  me,  written  Avhen  he 
became  prime  minister.  For  Southey,  knowing  his  ner- 
vous irritability,  the  limits  of  his  health  and  strength,  and 

*  Wordsworth. 


262  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

the  trials  lie  would  have  to  encounter  in  the  House  of 
Commons,  foresaw  his  fate.  The  Duke  of  Wellington 
was  spared  any  lingerings;  and  Lord  Palraerston,  at  more 
than  eighty  years  of  age,  resigned  his  office  straight  into 
the  hands  of  death.  With  these,  physical  and  political 
extinction  coming  together,  though  there  was  an  imme- 
diate shock  to  the  public  mind,  yet,  when  this  had  been 
surmounted,  the  man  had  gone  to  his  rest,  and  there  was 
nothing  left  to  contemplate  but  the  record  of  his  past 
career,  with  the  honors  and  achievements  attending  it. 
Lord  Melbourne,  on  the  contrary,  remained  to  be  half- 
forgotten  as  a  living  man,  the  bright  past  obscured  to  the 
eyes  of  others  by  the  half-seen,  bedimmed  })rescnt,  and  in 
himself  sadly  conscious  of  his  stricken  state,  and,  I  am 
afraid,  not  unvisited  by  that  sense  of  humiliation  in  the 
loss  of  bodily  and  mental  vigor  to  which,  however  unrea- 
sonably, men  who  have  possessed  both  in  great  force  are 
apt  to  give  way.  I  heard  of  him  occasionally  from  Mrs. 
Norton;  and  one  day  when  she  had  been  with  him  she 
told  me  that  he  had  repeated,  in  application  to  himself, 
the  lines  in  which  Samson  Agonistes  laments  his  fallen 
state: 

"  So  mucli  I  feel  my  genial  spirits  droop, 
fily  hopes  nil  flat,  Niituie  within  me  seems 
In  all  her  functions  weary  of  herself, 
My  race  of  glory  run  and  race  of  shame, 
And  I  sliall  shortly  be  with  them  that  rest." 

Shortly  after  this  he  was  with  them  that  rest;  and  then 
those  who  admired  him,  as  I  did,  were  permitted  to  look 
across  the  interval  which  had  seemed  to  divide  him  from 
himself,  and  to  see  him  again  in  all  his  original  bright- 
ness. 

I  have  said  that  these  two — Sir  James  Stephen  and 
Lord  Melbourne — are  the  only  public  men  whose  distinc- 


Mr.  Gladstone,  263 

tive  features  I  can  at  once  feel  myself  permitted,  and 
suppose  myself  competent,  to  delineate.  I  wish  that  Mr. 
Gladstone  was  a  third.  But,  in  his  early  life,  I  knew 
him  just  enough  to  make  me  feel  it  unfitting  to  write 
about  him  with  the  freedom  with  which  a  mere  acquaint- 
ance could  write;  and  in  his  after  life  I  have  known  him 
too  little  to  have  much  more  to  say  than  what  all  the 
world  knows  well  enough  without  my  help.  His  relation 
to  the  times  in  which  he  lived  and  to  the  people  whom  he 
served  will  be  best  discerned  when  the  life  and  the  times 
are  past  and  gone.  For  myself,  if  I  could  care  for  the 
people  as  I  ought,  I  should  not  find  it  possible  to  contem- 
plate their  share  in  the  relations  between  him  and  them 
without  humiliation  on  their  behalf;  and,  looking  about 
me  in  these  years  in  which  I  am  writing,  I  should  feel 
compelled  to  ask.  Have  the  English  peoj^le  ever  cared 
whether  their  minister  was  of  a  higher  or  lower  order  in 
his  nature  and  conscience  and  character  and  motives,  if 
only  he  went  their  way  with  political  tact  and  with  com- 
petent skill  and  ability?  To  such  a  question  I  think  the 
answer  would  be,  that  the  people  are  content  that  in  these 
particulars  their  minister  should  represent  themselves,  or, 
perhaps,  that  he  should  be  a  man  whom  they  can  look 
down  upon  in  some  respects,  while  they  look  up  to  him  in 
others.  A  great  man — a  man  of  a  manifold  greatness, 
intellectual,  moi*al,  spiritual,  and  practical — is  not  what 
they  feel  themselves  to  have  occasion  for;  and,  indeed, 
they  are  far  from  extreme  to  mark  what  is  amiss  in  a  man 
without  principles,  provided  he  do  not  profess  to  have- 
what  he  has  not.  Hypocrisy  would  be  offensive  to  them; 
but,  in  some  respects,  a  minister  who  is  sure  to  have  no 
scruples  about  doing  as  he  is  bid  will  best  serve  their  pur- 
poses, whether  or  not  he  shall  best  serve  those  of  their  in- 
terests which  they  are  unable  to  appreciate. 


264  Autohiograjyhy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

I  have  said  that  it  is  not  for  me  to  venture  upon  a  por- 
traiture of  Mr.  Gladstone.  But  though  I  may  not  paint 
the  tree,  I  may  allow  myself  to  pick  up  a  leaf  or  two  that 
fell  as  I  passed  under  it. 

I  imagine  it  to  be  difficult  for  any  one  who  has  not  filled 
the  position  of  prime  minister  and  leader  of  the  House 
of  Commons  to  attain  to  any  conception  of  the  number, 
weight,  and  measure  of  the  affairs  to  which  a  dutiful  man 
in  that  position  must  give  an  anxious  attention.  Mrs. 
Gladstone,  some  time  during  her  husband's  tenure  of  office 
as  prime  minister,  spoke  to  me  of  the  power  he  possessed 
of  turning  from  what  was  arduous  and  anxious,  and  be- 
coming at  once  intently  occupied  with  what  was  neither; 
and  she„  regarded  this  as  having  something  of  a  saving 
virtue.  But  she  added  that,  nevertheless,  "  it  was  a  fright- 
ful life." 

I  was  reminded  of  this  unusual  combination  of  intensity 
with  versatility  on  one  of  the  few  occasions  on  which  I 
happened  to  meet  with  Mr.  Gladstone  during  his  tenure 
of  office  as  first  minister.  lie  asked  me  what  I  thought 
of  two  or  three  volumes  of  poetry  recently  published.  I 
had  never  heard  of  them,  and  the  names  of  the  authors 
were  unknown  to  me.  They  were  presentation  copies, 
sent  him  by  obscure  poets,  who,  if  possessed  of  a  grain  or 
two  of  common-sense,  could  have  had  but  little  expecta- 
tion that  their  volumes  would  be  opened  by  Mr.  Glad- 
stone, even  if  they  should  pass  beyond  the  sifting  hands 
of  his  private  secretaries.  He  seemed,  however,  to  be  prc- 
jiai'ed  to  discuss  their  merits,  had  not  my  entire  ignorance 
stopped  the  way. 

If  the  life  led  by  a  first  minister  is  frightful,  which  I 
can  well  believe  it  to  be  in  the  case  of  one  who  is  solici- 
tously dutiful,  that  of  a  chancellor  of  the  exchequer  may 
not  be  a  very  happy  one  when  natural  kindness  in  the 


Mr.  Gladstone.  265 

man  has  to  contend  with  official  conscientiousness  in  the 
ministry.  For  it  is  a  life  of  refusals.  And  if,  moreover, 
he  have  gifts  and  powers  which  widen  indefinitely  the 
area  of  duty,  he  may  feel  himself  called  upon  at  times  for 
efforts  and  activities  little  short  of  those  which  bclono;  to 
a  first  minister  leading  the  House  of  Commons. 

In  a  letter  of  mine  to  Mr.  Gladstone,  written  in  Decem- 
ber, 1864,  I  adverted  to  some  extraordinary  exertions  of 
his  in  public  speaking  here  and  there  in  the  country,  and 
reminded  him  that  Lord  Brougham  had  at  one  time  done 
the  like,  and  that,  in  his  case,  the  exertions  had  been  fol- 
lowed by  a  season  of  fearful  nervous  prostration.  Lord 
Brougham,  I  admitted,  seemed  to  have  stopped  only  to 
take  in  fuel,  and  after  a  time  had  gone  on  again  as  fast  as 
before;  but  I  regarded  Lord  Brougham's  example  as  Lord 
Bacon  regarded  that  of  an  old  dram-drinker,  said  by  him 
to  be  "  the  devil's  decoy."  And  I  added  that,  looking  to 
the  lives  led  by  cabinet  ministers  in  this  country,  I  thought 
it  desirable  that  they  should  be  turned  out  at  least  every 
five  or  six  years,  for  the  recovery  of  their  health. 

Mr.  Gladstone  replied  (26th  December,  1864):  "Your 
conclusion,  I  am  sure,  is  sound ;  we  ought  to  be  turned 
out  for  our  good.  But  in  the  course  of  my  life  I  have 
found  it  just  as  difficult  to  get  out  of  office  as  to  get  in, 
and  I  have  done  more  doubtful  things  to  get  out  than  to 
get  in.  Furthermore,  for  nine  or  ten  months  of  the  year 
I  am  always  willing  to  go,  but  in  the  two  or  three  which 
precede  the  budget  I  begin  to  feel  an  itch  to  have  the 
handling  of  it.  Last  summer  I  should  have  been  de- 
lighted; now  I  am  indifferent;  in  February,  if  I  live  so 
long,  I  shall,  I  have  no  doubt,  be  loath;  but  in  April,  quite 
ready  again.     Such  are  my  signs  of  the  zodiac." 

He  was  then  scarcely  past  middle  age ;  and  if,  before 
old  age,  and  in  a  less  responsible  position,  his  appetite  for 

n.— 12 


266  Autohiogrcq^lnj  of  Henry  Taylor. 

oiHce  was  so  uncertain,  it  may  well  be  believed  that,  in 
1874,  when  old  age  had  arrived  and  the  functions  to  be 
exercised  were  more  arduous  than  ever,  he  was  more  than 
ready,  or  would  have  been  so  if  his  personal  interests  only 
had  been  in  question,  to  receive  his  dismissal  at  the  hands 
of  a  people  who  conceived,  unhappily  not  without  reason, 
that  a  very  different  kind  of  man  would  represent  them 
more  truly. 


CHArXER    XXIII. 

WHAT  IS  LOST  IX  OLD  AGE  AND  WHAT  IS  LEFT.— POETIC  GIFTS 
BY  INHERITANCE. 

Axxo  DoM,  1872-74.     Anno  JEr.  72-74. 

"What  time  had  left  to  me  and  what  it  had  taken 
away,  now  that  my  threescore  years  and  ten  had  run  their 
course,  is  to  be  gathered  from  two  or  three  letters  written 
in  1871. 

Aubrey  de  Yere  seemed  to  me  to  be  in  his  poetical 
l^rime,  gaining  rather  than  losing  in  the  lajjse  of  years. 
But  he  was  some  fourteen  years  my  junior.  In  his  san- 
guine supposition,  my  powers  were  to  take  no  more  ac- 
count of  years  than  his  own.  But  I  thought  otherwise 
(1st  August,  18'72) :  "  I  am  glad  you  are  flowing  in  poetry 
again,  and  I  hope  you  have  still  your  'two  raptures  a 
week.'  I  have  no  raptures;  but  the  faculties  of  conceiv- 
ing and  executing  remain  to  me,  such  as  they  are  or  can 
be  without  exaltations.  They  have  been  exercised  most 
of  this  year  from  time  to  time,  and  are  still  exercised,  in 
correcting  my  plays  and  poems  for  new  editions.  The 
present  edition  of  *  Van  Artevelde '  is  nearly  at  an 
end.  Those  of  the  others  a  good  M'ay  off  it.  ...  I  have 
no  doubt  that  what  I  do  by  way  of  improvement  effects 
its  object;  but  I  have  more  than  a  doubt  about  writing 
in  these  latter  years  '  as  good  poetry  as  ever  I  did.'  How 
was  it  with  Enoch  ? 

"  '  Enoch  !  the  lights  are  darkened  on  the  hill, 
But  in  the  house  a  thoughtful  watch  is  set ; 


2C8  Aidohiography  of  Ilcnry  Taijlor. 

Warm  on  tlie  ancient  hearth  fire  ghmmers  still, 

Kor  do  tlic  travellers  tlieir  way  forget, 

Nor  is  the  grasshopper  a  burden  yet. 
Though  blossoms  on  the  mountain-top  tlie  snow, 

The  maids  of  musie  still  are  lingering  near  ; 
Still  are  the  wakeful  listeners  wise  to  know. 

Still  to  thy  soul  the  voice  of  song  is  dear.'* 

"There  may  be  '  i^linnnerings'  and  'lingcrings'  at 
threescore  and  ten,  but  the  incandescence  and  the  close 
embrace  there  cannot  be." 

AVhat  advancing  years  deprived  mc  of,  besides  *'  the 
poetic  faculty  in  some  of  its  ranges,"  is  indicated  in  a  let- 
ter to  Lady  Minto  (Bournemouth,  24th  June,  1874) :  "  Of 
late  years  I  have  often  felt  how  difficult  it  is  for  the  old 
to  make  the  acquaintance  of  the  young.  And  there  is 
another  change  which  takes  place  in  old  age  more  or  less 
connected  with  this.  I  perceive  an  alteration  in  the  rela- 
tive values  one  assigns  to  this  or  that  attribute.  In  my 
youth  I  cared  little  about  intellect  (my  own  or  that  of 
others)  in  comparison  with  other  things — not  better  things 
necessarily,  but  other.  Now,  Avhen  other  things  have 
fallen  away  and  intellect  is  the  main  element  of  com- 
panionship left,  I  learn  to  prize  it." 

I  ho]>e  that,  in  mentioning  these  indications  of  change 
by  old  age,  I  did  not  intend  a  complaint.  Certainly  I  had 
no  reason  to  complain  of  the  want  of  young  companions. 
If  those  who  had  accrued  when  I  was  not  so  very  old  were 
now  but  seldom  within  reach,  yet,  when  we  could  meet, 
they  were  all  to  me  that  they  had  ever  been;  and  there 
wei'e  those  of  my  own  house  Avho  were  always  at  hand  and 
never  tired  of  lighting  up  my  dim  old  age  with  the  radiant 
reflex  of  their  youth.  Of  all  that  went  to  constitute  the 
charm  of   young   companionship  in  them,  I  may  hardly 

*Ebcnezer  Elliot. 


Inherited  Gifts.  269 

permit  myself  to  speak  ;  but  there  is  one  domestic  pecu- 
liarity which  I  feel  at  liberty  to  take  note  of,  inasmuch  as 
it  bears  directly,  and  with  what  I  should  imagine  to  be  a 
somewhat  singular  force,  upon  a  subject  of  much  interest 
to  philosophers,  both  physiological  and  psychological — the 
law  of  nature  under  which  certain  faculties  and  powers 
are  wont  to  be  transmitted  by  inheritance. 

In  my  family  three  generations  bear  witness  to  the 
transmission,  in  one  measure  or  another,  of  a  poetic  gift. 
In  my  father's  generation  that  gift  was  much  more  rare 
than  in  those  which  have  followed,  and  one  who  possessed 
it  might  have  been  expected  to  value  it  as  that  which  is 
rare  is  wont  to  be  valued.  But  he,  being  a  man  who 
undervalued  every  gift  that  he  possessed,  who  preferred 
reading  to  writing,  and  took  more  pleasure  in  what  others 
did  than  in  what  he  did  himself,  was  seldom  led  to  write 
verses  otherwise  than  in  answer  to  some  call  from  without, 
or  when  some  special  occasion  for  it  arose.  The  occasional 
poem  of  his  which  maybe  most  appropriately  quoted  here 
is  one  in  the  ethical  and  didactic  tone  of  the  eighteenth 
century,  familiar  to  him  in  his  youth,  and  still  echoing  in 
his  ears,  when,  on  my  sixteenth  birthday  (18th  October, 
1816),  he  gave  me  a  blank  commonplace  book  with  this 
prefix: 

*'■  Made  nova  virtute,  Puer:  sic  itur  ad  astra. 

Emerging  now  from  boyliood  into  youth 
Renew  to-day  the  noble  quest  of  truth ; 
Striving  wiili  renovated  strength  to  rise 
By  truth  to  virtue,  virtue  to  the  skies. 
Lo  !  here  tiie  ready  tablets  !     Here  indite 
All  thou  canst  find  to  aid  the  heavenward  flight. 
Genius  and  Virtue,  as  aloft  they  soar, 
Scatter  the  plunies  that  them  sublimely  bore 
Till  wings  of  growth  celestial  from  the  ken 
And  reach  transport  them  of  mere  earthlv  men. 


270  Autobiography  of  Ilcnry  Taylor. 

01),  catch  these  boons  that  they  in  mercy  fling 

To  gh\(]  tliine  eye  and  imp  thy  weaker  wing: 

Tliey  deck  llieir  strength  witli  Beauty's  varied  bloom, 

The  power  of  pinion  with  the  pride  of  plume: 

Oh !  to  behold  thee  on  such  wings  arise 

And  bear  tliy  brethren  with  thee  to  the  skies!'' 

Next  comes  my  own  generation,  represented  by  my 
two  brothers,  in  their  almost  boyhood,  as  -well  as  by  my- 
self. I  know  not  the  precise  dates  at  which  their  poems 
were  written.  The  elder  of  them  died  three  days  after 
his  twentieth  birthday.  The  other  was  one  year  and  a 
quarter  younger,  and  the  two  died  within  a  fortnight  of 
each  other.  Each  of  them  had  been  engaged  already  in 
designing  and  executing  long  and  elaborate  poems,  left 
unfinished  at  their  death;  what  was  accomplished  being, 
of  course,  too  immature  to  be  worth  producing  otherwise 
than  in  extract  and  for  my  present  purpose. 

Of  a  poem  begun  by  the  elder,  twenty-two  stanzas — 
Spenserian — had  been  written,  of  which  four,  at  the  be- 
ginning, will  be  enough  to  evince  his  command  of  that  by- 
no  means  facile  form  of  versification: 

"  I'ale  moonlight  is  upon  time  blasted  walls 

And  crumbling  battlements  and  spreading  moss, 

And  from  soft  foliage  the  night-shade  falls 

Over  tills  silent  hall  and  verdurous  fosse: 

Tliro'  t!ic  ribbed  window  and  its  open  cross 

The  ivy-broken  rays  are  lightly  glancing, 

Shedding  o'er  half  the  scene  a  yellow  gloss, 

And  .all  that  still  solemnity  enhancing 
O'er  which  the  sunbeam  late  so  merrily  was  dancing. 

"  And  oh !  when  we  behold  how  yon  gray  stream 
Towards  its  eternal  bed  in  darkness  steers, 
And  gaze  upon  its  gleaming  waves,  that  seem 
The  hoary  pilgrims  of  .six  thousand  years  ; 
When  we  look  up  at  every  rock  that  rears 
Its  black  peak  round  us,  as  the  sentinel 


My  Brothers  Poetry.  ^''^ 

That  through  his  sixty  nges  proudly  peers, 
Tales  of  Creation's  infancy  to  tell, 
And  days  when  he  was  young,  the  guardian  of  the  dell^ 

"  How  little  look  these  walls  thus  worn  by  time ! 

How  poor  their  pride,  how  valueless  their  fame! 

Erewhile  tlie  stage  of  monkish  pantomime 

And  ritual  pomp  that  took  Religion's  name ; 

And  now  ...  an  atom  in  this  mighty  frame, 

A  thing  that  moulders  'mid  perennial  bloom, 

A  cliild  of  Alt  that  Nature  puts  to  shame; 

Sprung  from  decay,  inlieriting  the  tomb, 
It  borrows  Nature's  charms  and  hides  in  ivied  gloom, 

"  Yet  in  such  cells,  within  her  self-wrouglit  grave, 
A  chrysalis  of  stone,  did  Learning  sleep 
Thro'  the  long  respite  darker  ages  gave  : 
When  from  the  East  a  purple  light  'gan  peep, 
First  slowly,  from  her  shell,  she  learn'd  to  creep. 
Then,  with  a  warmer  ray,  she  quicker  speeds, 
Till,  bounding  into  air  with  a  light  leap. 
On  glittering  wings  the  airy  chase  she  lead:^. 

And  lofty  lore  displays  and  spurs  to  generous  deeds." 

I  have  spoken  of  the  unfinished  poems,  on  a  large  scale, 
as  on  the  whole  immature;  but  in  these  stanzas  of  the 
elder  brother's  poem  I  perceive  no  marks  of  immaturity. 

The  poem  projected  by  the  younger  was  in  heroic 
verse,  of  which  some  hundreds  of  lines  had  been  produced 
Avheu  he  died.  They  are  equably  and  ably  written  in 
good  verse,  but  they  want  the  ease  and  the  impulse  which 
are  invariably  found  in  the  poetry  of  the  elder  brother, 
and  I  shall  prefer  to  take  my  extract  from  an  intended 
drama,  in  five  acts,  commencing  after  the  defeat  of  Rob- 
ert, Duke  of  Normandy,  by  Henry  the  First  of  England. 
The  scene  is  at  the  court  of  the  Count  of  Anjou,  whither 
Robert's  son  flies  after  the  battle,  and  where  he  is  re- 
ceived by  the  count  and  by  his  guardian,  St.  Saen.  He 
announces  his  tidings,  and  leaves  them  in  a  passion  of 


272  Autobiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

grief  and  despair;  and  then  the  count  endeavors  to  con- 
sole St.  Saen,  who  answers  tliiis: 

"  That  is  not,  Anjou,  oli !   that  is  not  all. 
No,  that  is  nothing ;  well  I  know  the  prince ; 
Not  long  will  reason  there  to  grief  resign. 
Nor  Iiard  of  heart  nor  weak  of  soul  is  he ; 
Good,  exquisitely  sorrow's  sting  to  feel ; 
Great,  nobly,  proudly,  to  despise  her  chain. 
It  is  not  he  for  whom  my  soul  is  sick. 
But  Henry  on  the  neck  of  Normandy 
Hath  set  a  tyrant's  foot,  and  on  the  wind 
Are  all  her  laws  and  all  her  liberties, 
And  all  the  energies  of  all  her  people; 
Their  national  pride,  their  vigor  and  their  virtue, 
Tlieir  ancient  rights  and  all  their  happiness. 
It  is  a  woe  for  which  the  brave  may  weep, 
And  down  the  warrior's  hard  and  grisly  cheek 
This  day  the  streaming  grief  profuse  shall  fall 
And  mix  with  women's  tears. 
Weep  on  !  ye  men  of  Normandy,  weep  on ! 
If  any  scoff,  say  that  your  country's  dead  ; 
Say  that  your  countrymen  are  [  ]  *  slaves  ; 

Say  that  St.  Saen  is  weeping." 

Of  the  gifts  he  exercised  at  eighteen  years  of  age  it 
v/ould  be  mere  guesswork  to  say  what  proportions  they 
might  have  readied  had  they  not  been  arrested  in  their 
development;  but  that  the  gifts  were  in  him  I  have  no 
doubt. 

Tlie  two  brothers  were  devoted  to  each  other;  one  of 
tlieir  poems,  a  satire  of  five  Imndred  and  seventy  lines, 
was  a  joint  production,  and  the  ])ortion  of  it  quoted  at  p. 
29,  vol.  i.,  shows  that,  among  their  other  attributes,  wit 
was  not  Avanting;  but  that  not  being  to  my  present  pur- 
jiose,  I  must  leave  the  second  generation  and  proceed  to 
the  third. 

*  A  word  has  been  ( b'itcratcd  iu  the  MS.  without  being  replaced. 


My  Brother'' s  Poetry.  273 

The  eldest  born  of  my  children  is  no  longer  with  us. 
"While  he  was  with  us,  it  was  not  known  to  me  that  he 
wrote  verses.  Those  that  I  find  in  a  notebook  are,  with 
two  exceptions,  rough  copies,  not  very  legibly  written, 
and  much  corrected.  Two  had  been  written  out  in  fair 
copies.     The  first  is  this: 

"  His  life  was  as  a  woven  rope; 

A  single  strand  may  liglitly  part ; 

Love's  simple  threaJ  is  all  her  hope, 

And  breaking,  breaks  her  heart." 

It  has  no  date.  The  second  is  dated  "  1867,"  when  he 
was  twenty-two  years  of  age: 

"  Her  eyes,  more  delicately  bright 

Than  harebell  trembling  in  the  dew, 
Too  prodigal  of  their  delight, 
Were  cast  on  old  and  new. 

"  Lips  where  the  sweet  life  rippling  played 
Softly,  as  o'er  a  summer  sea, 
Were  lavish  of  the  gifts  they  made 
To  all  the  world  and  me, 

"  None  was  too  paltry,  none  too  mean, 
To  share  the  triumph  of  her  grace: 
Nothing  was  common  or  unclean  * 

That  courted  her  embrace. 

"But  Love  was  jealous,  and  forbore 
To  touch  that  general  largesse ; 
And  lovers  still  came  more  and  more, 
But  Love  came  less  and  less." 

I  had  selected  from  the  poems  of  each  of  the  four  chil- 
dren remaining  to  me  examples  not  less  pertinent,  but  I 
am  not  allowed  to  produce  them. 
II.— 12* 


Chapter  XXIV. 

THREE  WINTERS  IN  LONDON.— LORD  KOMILLY.— "THE  CLUB." 
Anno  Dom.  1872-75.     Anno  iET.  72-75. 

I  FIND  myself  coming  to  an  end.  Of  the  three  years 
•which  followed  the  close  of  my  oiTicial  life,  we  passed 
several  months  in  London;  in  1872  and  1873  six  months, 
from  October  to  April;  in  1874  three  months,  from  Octo- 
ber to  January.  Life  in  London  was  new  to  our  children, 
and  seemed  almost  new  to  ourselves,  having  now  lived 
elsewhere  for  nearly  thirty  years.  It  was  only  under 
pressure  that  we  resumed  it;  but  it  was  necessary  that  my 
son  Harry  should  pass  some  months  there  to  be  crammed 
for  an  examination;  and  as  he  was  only  eighteen  years  of 
age,  we  thought  it  incumbent  uj^on  us  to  give  him  an  arm- 
chair by  a  domestic  fireside  to  go  to  sleep  in  when  the  la- 
bors of  the  day  were  over. 

How  we  liked  the  life  is  told  in  a  letter  to  Lord  Blach- 
ford  (23d  November,  1872):  "We  each  and  all  of  us  find 
London  a  very  pleasant  Pandemonium.  We  have  been 
giving  little  dinners  once  a  week,  or,  rather,  twice  a  fort- 
night, and  thinking  ourselves  and  our  dinners  very  agree- 
able; and  complimenting  Nature  that  made  us,  and  the 
cook  that  made  the  dinners." 

At  one  of  these  dinners  we  were  enabled  to  give  Lady 
Minto  certain  opportunities,  which,  it  will  be  seen,  she 
highly  valued.  She  Avas  at  Brighton,  but  thinking  of  com- 
ing up  to  town,  when  I  wrote  to  her  (0th  Jan.,  1874); 

"Perhaps  you  will  be  in  town  on  the  17th,  and,  if  so, 


Winters  in  Londcni.  275 

will  you  dine  with  us  on  that  day  (quarter  to  eight)  ?  I 
think  you  said  you  would  like  to  meet  the  Dean  of  St. 
Paul's,  and  I  think  you  will  like  him  when  you  do  meet 
him.  He  is  rather  a  recent  friend  of  mine,  but  also  rather 
a  fast  friend;  and  there  will  be  also  a  man  whom  I  have 
admired  and  wished  to  cultivate  for  the  last  two  or  three 
years  —  Sir  James  Ilanncn,  Judge  of  the  Matrimonial 
Causes  Court,  Besides  these  there  will  be  quite  a  new 
acquaintance,  but  one  whom  I  have  found  full  of  litera- 
ture and  poetry  —  Lord  Aberdare.  Whom  else  I  forget 
at  this  moment;  but  I  think  it  promises  to  be  a  pleasant 
dinner;  and  if  you  were  to  be  one,  the  promise  would  be 
brightened  and  confirmed.  ..." 

The  answer  contains  some  little  ambiguities:  "Thank 
you  for  fixing  my  wavering  fancies.  I  hardly  knew  what 
to  do  till  I  got  your  note  just  now.  It  makes  me  quite 
sure  that  I  can't  do  better  than  avail  myself  of  its  pleas- 
ant invitation.  I  shall  like  of  all  things  to  meet  your 
fast  friends.  Cigarettes  betMeen  courses?  One  knows 
the  kind  of  thing.  I  am  especially  gratified  by  your 
friendly  forethought  in  making  me  acquainted  with  Sir 
James  Hannen.  In  this  strange  world  one  should  prepare 
one's  self  for  all  sorts  of  accidents  and  emergencies,  and  it 
is  well  to  have  a  friend  everywhere." 

The  dinner  took  place,  and  was,  I  dare  say,  agreeable 
enough,  though  the  cigarettes  between  courses  may  have 
been  wanting. 

London  had  become  since  I  had  had  my  abode  in  it  not 
so  much  a  city  as  an  agglomeration  of  cities;  and  a  cer- 
tain peculiar  relation  of  time  and  space  which  had  always 
belonged  to  it  was  more  marked  than  ever.  Half  an  hour 
seemed  to  count  for  two  hours  elsewhere,  and  two  milc^ 
of  distance  between  friends  to  count  for  ten.  So  the  life 
in  London  had  its  disappointments  when,  from  time  to 


276  AutohiocjrapJnj  of  Henry  Taylor. 

lime,  Belgravia  siglied  after  tlie  far-distant  Tybiirnia;  but 
it  had  its  suflicicnt  compensations,  and  I  wrote  of  it  ac- 
cordingly to  Lady  Lytton  (16th  February,  18V4):  "If 
this  life  were  to  last  more  than  six  months,  or  be  rei)eated 
year  after  year,  no  doubt  I  should  get  tired  of  it;  but  for 
the  present  I  not  only  like  it  for  the  girls,  but  I  can  find 
interest  and  amusement  in  it  for  myself.  Men  with  whom 
I  was  in  relations  of,  not  exactly  friendship,  but  friendly 
intimacy,  forty  and  even  fifty  years  ago,  I  meet  again; 
and,  strange  as  it  may  seem,  I  meet  some  of  them  with 
pleasure;  those  that  is,  who,  like  Charles  Villiers,  are 
merely  their  very  selves  grown  old.  Others,  who  are  but 
'  remnants  of  themselves,'  like  Charles  Austin,  give  me  a 
sort  of  shock  at  lirst  sight;  but  still  it  is  interesting  to  me, 
in  a  way,  to  look  at  them  '  revisiting  the  glimpses  of  the 
moon,'  and  recognize  the  man  in  the  ghost.  And  in  the 
case  of  friends  of  mine,  Avho,  though  not  young,  are  of  a 
later  generation  than  myself,  it  is  a  pleasure  to  see  them 
growing  into  friends  of  my  girls,  and  likely  to  be  friends 
of  theirs  Avhcn  the  life  interest  in  my  friendship  falls  in. 
And  if  the  friendship  passes  on,  in  some  instances,  to  their 
children,  so  much  the  better.  So  on  the  whole  I  am  will- 
ing to  account  this  winter,  as  well  as  last,  well  spent  in 
London;  and  when  Easter  comes  we  go  to  Bournemouth, 
and  the  pine-woods  and  the  sea-shore  will  give  us  rest." 

In  the  first  weeks  of  this  year,  1874,  there  was  a  rekind- 
ling of  a  kindly  affection  which  had  almost  sunk  out  of 
sight  in  the  lapse  of  some  forty  years  of  separation.  When 
writing  of  my  associates  in  the  years  of  my  youth,  from 
twenty-four  to  twenty-seven,  I  said  that  John  Komilly  was 
sensitive  and  reserved,  and,  judging  by  his  countenance, 
of  a  very  gentle  and  affectionate  nature.  And  when  I 
said  no  more  than  that,  the  evidence  of  his  countenance 
was  all  that  was  needed.     But  how  ardently  and  tena- 


Lc/rd  Eomilly.  277 

ciously  affectionate  was  his  nature  I  had  yet  to  learn  when 
in  1874,  becoming  again  intimate  with  him,  I  became  in- 
timately conversant  with  the  relations  between  him  and 
the  daughter  who  was  living  with  him. 

I  wrote  to  him,  on  taking  up  my  abode  in  London,  to 
say  that  I  should  like  to  see  his  face  again,  and  I  was  sur- 
prised at  the  tone  of  his  reply.  I  then  learned  that,  in 
that  great  chasm"  of  separation,  his  friendly  feeling  had 
not  been  lost  past  recovery.  On  the  contrary,  it  seemed 
to  reawaken  with  a  warmth  I  had  not  till  now  known  to 
have  belonged  to  it;  and  possibly  it  was  the  more  rich  and 
far-reaching  in  recollections  inasmuch  as  there  was  no  in- 
termediate intercourse  to  meddle  with  them,  and  he  was 
carried  back  to  his  youth  at  one  bound.  It  was  so,  I 
think,  with  me;  but,  when  we  met,  my  pleasure  in  the 
meeting  was  overcome  by  the  shock  which  his  appearance 
gave  me;  for  he  was  evidently  much  broken  in  health, 
looking  "not  like  the  ruins  of  his  youth,  but  like  those 
ruins  ruined."  He  became  continually  weaker  and  worse 
as  the  year  passed  on  which  was  to  be  his  last,  and  his 
physician  thought  it  wonderful  that  his  intellect  was  un- 
impaired, and  that  he  could  still  employ  himself  in  his  vo- 
cation, delivering  judgments  with  the  laboriousness  which 
had  characterized  his  whole  career;  for  he  is  said  to  have 
delivered  more  than  any  master  of  the  rolls  known  to  the 
history  of  that  court.  His  memory  certainly  was  unim- 
paired; in  one  of  my  last  visits  I  asked  him  whether  he 
remembered  a  breakfast  of  Benthamites  I  had  given  some 
forty  or  fifty  years  before  at  which  I  had  brought  them 
acquainted  with  Wordsworth,  and  what  Charles  Austin 
had  said  when  Wordsworth  left  the  room;  and  he  an- 
swered at  once,  "  Yes  I  do.     He  said,  'That  is  a  Man.'  " 

He  died  on  the  23d  December,  1874,  and  on  the  31st  I 
wrote  to  Lady  Minto:  "My  chief  interest  in  London  this 


278  Autobiography  of  Ilcnry  Taylor. 

■winter  has  been  a  mournful  one,  in  Lord  Romilly  and 
in  his  daughter,  the  one  who  lived  with  him.  She  is  very 
interesting  to  mc,  I  hardly  know  why.  I  have  seen  her 
as  often  as  I  could,  but  that  was  not  very  often,  and,  of 
course,  I  cannot  know  much  about  her;  but  she  gave  me 
tlie  impression  of  a  deeper  nature  than  belongs  to  most 
girls;  perhaps  deepened  by  the  sadness  of  the  circum- 
stances; and  I  hope  to  make  a  friend  of  her  so  far  as  a 
man  of  seventy-four  can  expect  to  make  a  friend  of  a 
girl." 

In  January,  187"),  the  question  arose  whether  we  should 
remain  in  London,  as  in  the  two  previous  years,  till  Easter, 
or  leave  it  at  the  end  of  the  month;  and  the  answer  I  gave 
was,  that  if  Lord  Romilly  had  been  living  I  should  have 
wished  for  the  longer  term,  but  that  now  I  did  not  care; 
and  at  the  end  of  January  we  went  to  Bournemouth,  where 
we  have  since  remained. 

Lord  Romilly  had  been  desirous  to  signalize  the  revival 
of  our  friendship  by  having  me  elected  to  "The  Club." 
It  was  long  since  I  had  read  my  "Boswell's  Johnson," 
and  not  knowing  what  "  The  Club  "  was,  I  explained  that 
I  had  withdrawn  some  fifteen  years  before  from  the  only 
club  to  which  I  had  ever  belonged,  and  that,  being  so  lit- 
tle in  the  way  of  using  a  club,  it  would  be  unreasonable 
of  me  to  propose  to  be  a  member  of  one.  lie  still  in- 
sisted, and,  seeing  that  he  was  much  bent  upon  it,  I  ac- 
quiesced; and  then  I  found  that  the  club  in  question  was 
the  club  of  historical  celebrity  founded  by  Johnson,  Rey- 
nolds, Gibbon,  Burke,  Langton,  Beauclerk,  and  Gold- 
smith in  17G4,  and  consisting  of  thirty-five  members  who 
meet  to  dine  (as  many  of  them  as  are  so  disj)Osed)  once  in 
every  fortnight  during  the  session  of  Parliament.  My 
election  was  announced  to  me  in  terms  which  were  origi- 
nally dictated  by  Gibbon  and  had  been  used  ever  since: 


«  The  Club:'  379 

"Sir,  I  have  the  pleasure  to  inform  you  that  you  had  last 
night  the  honor  to  be  elected  a  member  of  'The  Club.'" 
I  was  very  sensible  of  "the  honor,"  and  thought  that  Gib- 
bon had  done  quite  right  to  speak  out.  And  the  only 
dinner  of  the  club  at  which  I  have  been  able  to  attend 
(for  I  left  London  two  days  after  it,  and  except  in  passing 
through  I  have  not  been  there  since)  seemed  to  me  as  dis- 
tinguished by  its  representative  character  as  the  club 
itself  is  in  its  origin.  "  There  were  ten  besides  myself," 
I  said  to  Lady  Minto  ;  "  Learning  and  literature  were 
represented  by  the  editors  of  the  Edinburgh  and  Quarterly 
Bevieics  and  by  Lecky  and  Lord  Acton;  the  Church  by 
the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  and  the  Dean  of  West- 
minster; the  law  by  Lord  Romilly;  statecraft  by  Lord 
Derby  and  Spencer  Walpole;  and  our  dukes  by  the  Duke 
of  Cleveland.  It  was  a  curious  social  combination,  and  I 
thought  it  as  agreeable  as  a  dinner  could  be  from  which 
youth  and  women  were  absent.  Lord  Bacon  says  that  at 
the  council  table  care  should  be  taken  that  there  should  be 
a  due  proportion  of  old  and  young;  and  I  should  say  the 
same  of  a  dinner-table;  and  Miss  Cobb  would  say  that 
women  and  men  ought  to  take  sweet  counsel  together, 
whether  dining  or  deliberating.  However,  1  was  reminded 
of  some  of  that  beloved  sex;  for  'The  Life  of  Gilbert'* 
and  '  The  Life  of  Hugh '  were  both  discussed.  Lord  Derby 
(such  an  enthiisiast!)  said  the  former  was  '  charmingly 
done,'  and  no  less  than  three  quotations  were  delivered  by 
three  different  diners  from  '  The  Life  of  Hugh.'  Certain- 
ly Hugh's  repartees  live  in  his  life.  Within  two  or  three 
weeks  before  I  had  heard  one  of  them  quoted  at  our  house 
by  George  Venables  and  another  at  a  dinner  at  Lady  Rich's 
by  Sir  James  Colvile." 

*The  works  alluded  to  are  "The  Life  of  Hugh  Elliot"  and  "The 
Life  of  Gilbert  Elliot,  First  Earl  of  IMinto,"  both  by  Lady  Minto. 


280  Autohiography  of  Henry  Taylor. 

So  there  was  an  end  of  London.  And  tlie  same  letter 
proceeds:  "Well,  leaving  London  behind,  and  all  its  din- 
ners, I  throw  myself  now  upon  the  two  or  three  dear  old 
maids  who  are  my  resources  here.  One  cultivates  her 
garden,  another  her  mind;  and  one  charm  they  have  in 
common,  which  stands  out  when  a  man  gets  to  his  seventy- 
fourth  year — tiiat  when  I  go  to  them  I  know  they  will  be 
glad  to  see  me." 

In  the  last  page  of  my  essay  on  "  The  Life  Poetic " 
are  these  words: 

"When  a  poet's  own  works  are  as  he  would  wish  to 
leave  them,  nothing  of  that  which  is  peculiar  to  him  as  a 
poet,  and  not  common  to  him  as  a  man,  will  so  well  be- 
come his  latter  days  as  to  look  beyond  himself,  and  have 
regard  to  the  future  fortunes  of  his  art  involved  in  the 
rising  generation  of  poets.  It  should  be  his  desire  and 
his  joy  to  chei'ish  the  lights  by  which  his  own  shall  be 
succeeded  and  perhaps  outshone.  The  i)crsonal  influence 
of  an  old  poet  upon  a  young  one — youth  and  age  being 
harmonized  by  the  sympathies  of  the  art — may  do  what 
no  writings  can  to  mould  those  spirits  by  which,  here- 
after, many  are  to  be  moulded;  and  as  the  reflex  of  a 
glorious  sunset  will  sometimes  tinge  the  eastern  sky,  the 
declining  i)0ct  may  communicate  to  those  who  are  to 
come  after  him,  not  guidance  only,  but  the  very  colors  of 
his  genius,  the  temper  of  his  moral  mind,  and  the  inspira- 
tion of  his  hopes  and  promises.  This  done,  or  ceasing  to 
be  practicable  through  efliux  of  light,  it  will  only  remain 
for  the  poet  to  wait  in  patience  and  peace, 

'  Wliile  night 
Invests  the  sen,  and  wished  morn  deUiys.'"  * 

What  have  I  done  in  my  latter  days,  or  what  token  is 
*  "Paradise  Lost." 


'' Life  Poetic:'  '         281 

there  in  tbis  record  of  them,  that  can  be  said  to  be  in  har- 
mony with  this  view  of  what  should  have  been  ?  Alas  ! 
not  an  act  or  a  word.  It  is  true  that  no  reflex  was  to  be 
expected,  inasmuch  as  the  sunset  is  not  glorious.  But 
where  is  the  cherishing?  I  can  only  plead  that  my  life 
has  not  been  the  "Life  Poetic"  of  which  I  was  writing 
in  ray  essay,  but  a  much-varied  and  often  much-busied 
life,  in  which  the  poetic  was  but  one  element;  and  when, 
after  its  threescore  years  and  ten  were  past,  it  came  to 
be  a  life  of  leisure  and  retirement,  it  found  itself  person- 
ally apart  from  those  of  the  next  generation  who  were  on 
the  road  to  occupy  high  positions,  or  had  achieved  them. 
One  portion,  however,  I  can  claim  to  have  in  the  two  gen- 
erations of  poets  who  have  succeeded  mine — that  which 
comes  of  a  large  and  high  appreciation — for  I  do  not  be- 
lieve that  in  any  country  or  any  time  there  have  been  so 
many  with  a  genuine  gift  of  inborn  poetic  genius. 


Chapter  XXV. 

RESUMPTION  OF  MY  AUTOBIOCJRAPIIY.  — A  TREFATOPvY  POST- 
SCRIPT. 

Anno  Dom.  1872-75.     Awo  JEt.  72-75. 

Some  early  chapters  of  my  autobiography  had  been 
written  in  1865,  when  the  insurrection  of  the  negroes  in 
Jamaica  brouglit  upon  me  such  a  pressure  of  official  oc- 
cupation as  put  a  stop  to  every  other.  I  resumed  the 
task  at  the  close  of  my  official  life,  in  1872. 

I  mentioned  the  resumption  to  Lord  Blachford  (22d 
September,  1872):  "My  pouches  are  dropping  off  as  if  in 
anticipation  of  the  last  drop,  which  will  be  this  day  week. 
And,  in  like  anticipation,  I  have  taken  up  my  autobiog- 
raphy in  the  endeavor  and  the  hope  to  supply  their  place. 
It  is  seven  years  since  I  wrote  what  is  written  of  it,  and 
I  think  I  feel  the  difficulties  of  the  task  the  more  for  the 
seven  years  more  of  age.  I  say  to  myself, '  I  never  liked 
the  public,  and  how  is  it  that  I  come  to  be  so  confiden- 
tial ?'  I  suppose  the  answer  is,  that  Avithin  the  great 
gross  public  there  is  a  little  delicate  public  whom  I 
should  like  to  make  friends  with  ])osthumously,  so  far  as 
the  dead  can  make  friends  with  the  living.  Or,  perhaps, 
on  the  supposition  that  my  works  are  to  live,  I  go  on  to 
suppose  that  my  life  will  be  written  by  somebody;  in 
which  case  it  would  be  better  that  it  should  be  written  by 
such  a  kind  and  considerate  hand  as  my  own  than  by 
that  of  some  other  candid  biographer.  The  worst  of  it 
is  that  one  cannot  whisper  one's  biogra})hy  in  the  car  of 


Resunvption  of  my  Autohiography.  283 

the  little  delicate  public  v^-ithout  being  overheard  by  the 
monster;  and  also,  that  whatever  gentle  and  tender  con- 
sideration one  may  experience  at  one's  own  hands,  that 
will  not  necessarily  effect  a  rescue  from  the  hands  of  oth- 
ers. Still,  this  task  seems  more  likely  to  interest  and  oc- 
cupy me  than  any  other,  and  the  difficulties  will  probably 
become  less  as  I  get  more  used  to  dealing  with  them. 
My  resumption  began  with  a  revision,  and  I  have  adopted 
all  your  suggestions.  As  I  proceed,  by  far  the  largest 
portion  of  what  I  have  to  tell  is  what  is  brought  back  to 
my  memory  by  the  letters  relating  to  it.  The  letters  tell 
me  the  story  which  I  am  to  tell;  and  the  question  is,  when 
to  tell  it  myself  and  when  to  let  them  tell  it  by  extracts — 
whether  to  have  more  of  fluent  narrative  or  more  of  ac- 
tual record.  My  love  of  exactness  favors  the  letters,  es- 
pecially when  the  'ipsissima  verba'  are  lively  or  charac- 
teristic;  but fears  that   the  narrative   will  be   too 

much  broken  and  interrupted.  It  is  a  question  of  pro- 
portion and  for  the  exercise  of  judgment  in  detail,  and  I 
am  afraid  I  should  seek  in  vain  for  a  rule." 

Some  other  difficulties,  and  especially  the  difficulties  in 
judging  of  the  measure  of  self-exhibition  or  self-exposure 
to  be  resolved  upon,  are  dealt  with  in  another  letter  (26th 
November,  1872):  "You  write  as  if  you  thought  I  was 
going  to  publish  my  autobiography  in  my  lifetime,  which 
I  have  never  dreamed  of  doing.  Of  course  there  is  such 
a  thing  as  posthumous  egoism,  and  a  corpse  stands  in  need 
of  a  shroud.  But  egoism  is  of  the  essence  of  autobiog- 
raphy, and  I  had  made  w^  my  mind  to  so  much  of  it  as 
naturally  belongs  to  me.  Every  one  takes  an  interest  in 
himself  and  in  what  is  thought  of  him — some  more,  some 
less — and  more  and  less  not  only  substantively,  but  in  the 
proportion  which  it  bears  to  his  other  interests.  I  should 
think  I  have  a  fair  average  share  of  it;  and  my  desire  in 


284  Autobiograjphy  of  Henry  Taylor. 

my  autobiography  should  be  not  to  pretend  to  have  less. 
I  sometimes  shrink  a  little,  and  have  to  remind  myself 
that  I  am  dead  and  buried;  and  the  feeling  tends  to  in- 
crease as  I  pass  away  from  mj'  youth,  in  which  I  find  less 
of  myself,  and  on  towards  the  identical  Henry  Taylor  that 
I  am  now.  But  I  mean  to  make  a  good  fight  against  it. 
If  an  autobiography  is  to  be  personally  interesting,  it  is 
in  some  measure  through  the  reader  sharing  the  interest 
which  the  writer  takes  in  himself.  Whatever  the  subject 
of  a  book  may  be,  if  the  writer  seems  to  take  no  interest  in 
it  the  reader  will  be  apt  to  take  none.  And  then,  as  to 
the  letters,  I  should  be  disposed  to  say  that  the  exhibition 
of  one's  clever  self  in  one's  letters  would  be  not  more 
egoistical  than  the  exhibition  of  one's  immensely  interest- 
ing self  in  one's  life.  Indeed,  in  the  case  of  some  sorts  of 
letters,  I  should  say  that  the  egoism  is  less,  and  rather  re- 
sembles that  which  is  displayed  in  the  publication  of 
poems  or  essays.  Many  of  my  letters,  though  essentially 
personal,  and  WTitten  for  the  sake  of  the  interest  or  amuse- 
ment my  correspondent  would  find  in  them,  have  been 
written  with  almost  as  much  care  as  some  people  would 
bestow  on  the  writing  of  a  sonnet  or  an  ode.  They  were 
an  act  of  meditation  or  an  exercise  in  diction,  in  which  I 
took  the  more  pleasure  because  I  thought  that  my  corre- 
spondent would  take  a  pleasure  in  it.  This  is  not  the  ap- 
proved notion  of  what  makes  agreeable  letter- writing: 
and  I  do  not  doubt  that  most  of  the  letters  which  are 
agreeable  to  the  person  to  whom  they  are  addressed,  and 
at  the  moment  Avhen  they  are  received,  are  written  with 
an  easy  fluency,  and  with  no  more  thought  than  comes  un- 
summoned  as  Avell  as  uncompclled;  but  I  do  doubt 
whether  letters  so  written  arc  the  letters  which  are  found 
agreeable  when  read  in  a  book.  I  suspect  that  the  pub- 
lished letters  w'hich  are  praised  for  ease  and  fluency  are 


Resumption  of  my  Autobiography.  285 

those  to  which  the  effect  of  ease  and  fluency  has  been 
contributed  by  art.  At  all  events,  my  mind  is  one  in 
which  ease  and  fluency  have  no  part  or  lot;  it  is  essen- 
tially a  brooding,  a  concocting,  and  a  shaping  mind;  and 
it  must  work  according  to  its  law.  Any  letter  of  mine 
which  has  been,  in  Chinese  phrase, '  a  necessary  communi- 
cation,' may  have  been  written  with  ease;  but  any  which 
are  Avorth  reading  have  been  otherwise  written." 

He  rejoined,  2d  December,  1872:  "I  think  I  almost 
entirely  agree  with  you  about  letter-writing.  ...  I  quite 
ao'ree  in  that  letters  may  most  j^rofitably  be  works  of  art; 
but  then  I  think  that  one  great  charm  of  letters — the 
distinctive,  though  not  the  principal  charm — is  the  uncon- 
scious exhibition  of  pure  self,  which,  if  conscious,  would  be 
'posing.'.  .  .  I  certainly  would  not  have  your  letters  dif- 
ferent on  any  account.  I  see  you  in  every  line  of  them. 
I  do  not  see  anything  of  what  /call  self- exhibition,  but 
only  the  resolution  to  do  justice  to  your  conceptions, 
whether  conceptions  of  substance  or  conceptions  of  man- 
ner or  aspect." 

Of  my  progress  in  the  work  I  had  something  to  say  to 
Lord  Blachford  in  refusing  an  invitation  to  pay  him  a 
visit,  12th  May,  1874:  "I  am  beginning  now  to  excuse 
all  my  faults  of  omission  on  the  ground  of  extreme  old 
age;  and  under  the  iron  rule  to  which  I  am  subject  I  rather 
think  that,  angel  as  I  am,  my  visits  will  come  to  be  as  few 
and  far  between  as  my  letters.  And,  indeed,  I  have  some 
motive  of  my  own  for  staying  at  home;  for,  though  I  have 
no  troubles  about  horses  and  farmhouses  and  churches  and 
schools  and  woods,  I  hjive  that  slow  and  halting  old  auto- 
biography to  get  on  with;  and  as  I  believe  that  much  will 
depend  upon  the  manner  in  which  it  is  icritten,  I  want  to 
get  on  with  it  while  I  retain  whatever  gifts  of  writing,  be 
they  more  or  less,  I  may  now  have  at  my  command.     And 


280  Autobiographu  of  llcnry  Taylor. 

in  this  business  it  is  not  the  week  or  the  fortnight  spent  in 
a  visit  Avhich  represents  the  time  lost  ])y  it;  for  after  every 
suspension  or  break  I  find  tlic  resumption  of  the  task  en- 
cumbered with  divers  difticultics.  I  liave  to  find  out  where 
I  was  in  it,  and  wliat  I  was  about,  and  Avhat  I  was  intend- 
ing, and  wliere  this  lot  of  papers  is  and  where  that;  and  I 
have  to  conjure  up  again  tlie  audacity  required  for  such  a 
task;  and  I  have  to  conjure  down  the  sort  of  sadness  that 
comes  upon  one  again  and  again  after  every  interval  when 
one  goes  in  among  the  departed  spirits  the  back  way." 

When  the  first  volume  was  printed  privately  I  sent  Lord 
TJlachford  a  copy;  and  in  a  letter,  most  interesting  to  me, 
M-hich  he  Avrote  about  it,  he  expressed  his  astonishment  as 
well  as  amusement  at  some  parts  of  it;  and  I  replied:  "  I 
believe  there  is  no  sort  of  book  one  can  write  of  which  it 
is  so  difiicult  for  one  to  guess  what  will  be  the  effect  upon 
others.  As  to  your  astonishment,  I  suppose  it  is  at  my 
want  of  reserve.  ...  If  there  is  an  objection  to  unreserve 
it  should  lie,  perhaps,  against  writing  one's  own  life  at  all, 
rather  than  against  disclosing  what  was  most  material  in 
it.  Nevertheless,  there  is  a  measure  and  a  limit,  of  course, 
in  laying  things  open;  and  as  the  barber  said  to  the  chim- 
ney-sweep when  he  came  to  be  shaved,  *  one  must  draw  the 
line  somewhere.'  I  suppose  you  think  I  have  forgotten 
myself  so  far  as  to  shave  the  chimney-sweep." 

In  the  case  of  some  works  I  have  thought  that  what  had 
been  written  as  a  preface  would  be  better  read  as  a  post- 
script. And,  looking  upon  this  chapter  in  that  light,  it 
behooves  me  to  add  a  few  words  in  a  more  serious  spirit. 

AVith  whatever  measure  of  unreserve  I  may  seem  to  have 
written  about  myself,  it  has  been  no  part  of  my  design  to 
speak  the  whole  truth.  A  man  may  tell  the  truth  of  him- 
self somewhat  largely  without  disclosing  either  the  inward 


A  Prefatory  Postscript  287 

offences  or  the  weaknesses  and  littlenesses  of  his  life  and 
nature.  The  latter — the  little,  shabby,  shameful  things  of 
no  consequence,  done  or  said — will  to  some  men  be  more 
disagreeable  in  the  recollection  than  their  graver  delin- 
quencies. I  do  not  affect,  for  I  cannot  afford,  to  render  an 
account  of  either.  But  when  the  truth  and  nothing  but 
the  truth  is  told,  and  when  what  is  told  is  not  a  little, 
probably  as  much  of  the  whole  truth  may  be  inferred  or 
divined  (by  those  who  think  it  worth  their  while)  as  is 
often  to  be  made  out  about  anything.  If,  indeed,  the 
truth  about  anything  were  understood  to  be  the  whole 
truth,  the  question  "  What  is  truth?"  might  have  proceed- 
ed from  quite  another  mouth  than  that  of  Pilate. 


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